Pictures of the past
by TheFreakZone
Summary: Even though he's been trying to avoid it, Spain ends up in the Prado Museum, where he's hit with flashbacks from his past. Historical Hetalia, multichapter, crappy summary
1. I - Memories hit: the Catholic Monarchs

_AN: sooo this is my first try with a fanfiction in English, it's not my first language so don't go too hard on me if there are any mistakes (actually, I'd be very pleased if you were to kindly notificate them to me). It's also my first Hetalia fanfiction, I hope it turns out well._

 _I own neither Hetalia nor the cover pic._

 _And that's it, hope you enjoy the story_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 1:**

 **MEMORIES HIT: THE CATHOLIC MONARCHS**

Spain walks around Madrid with no destination at all. He's just wandering around, letting time pass by. The summer sun hits the streets mercilessly and the heat is way too strong; however, he doesn't mind at all. He is used to it, anyway, and he has always loved his summer weather– well, he loves his weather throughout the whole year: the soft rains of autumn, the quiet coolness of winter, the colourfulness of spring; but there is just something about summer that thrills him. Perhaps the sun that shines in an endless blue sky, perhaps the long days that seem that will last forever, perhaps all those tourists that come to visit… Maybe that's it: the tourists. All those different people from all those different countries, all those different faces and all those different accents. He loves them all. He loves the Germans that come with their skin white and leave with it red, courtesy of his beloved sun; he loves the Japanese, who come in such large groups and take pictures of everything; he loves the Italian, he loves the English, he loves the French –though perhaps the last are his least favourite, he and France have quite a complicated relationship-.

Suddenly, he realises he's standing in front of the Prado Museum. He hasn't even noticed him walking there, so lost has he been in his thoughts. He throws a quick glance at the old building and shivers because of all the memories, good and bad, it brings back. It has been a long while since he has last stepped inside, and he doubts he's brave enough to do it again. How is he supposed to look at all those paintings from the past and not feel touched? How could he?

He is brought back to the present when two young girls walk right by him, chattering loudly and happily about all the paintings they want to see. Spain smiles when the heavy Spanish accent caresses his ears and he feels happy to see that there still are young Spaniards who care about culture –truth is, he's growing more and more worried about his youth nowadays-. It takes him some time and the girls are long gone when he finally makes a decision.

The museum isn't as crowded as he thought it would be, which is both good and bad. Still, there are plenty of people and he has to make an effort to not be noticed; some centuries ago, that would have been almost impossible, but as he no longer has the presence, the importance he had back then, he manages to walk around being barely spotted. It's not long until he hears the voices again -which seems almost like a miracle in such a big building- and he follows them until he sees the girls again: they are standing in front of a big painting and they talk excitedly about it.

"I'm a hundred per cent sure we saw this in our History class a few weeks ago" says one of them.

"Watching paintings and talking about them is almost all we do" replies the other one with a short laugh. "I bet we've seen half of this museum."

"Quite possibly" the first one laughs too.

Spain can't help it and walks closer. He is curious about what the painting might be about –he couldn't see it from where he was standing-, and when he finally gets to see it, he feels a wave of nostalgia all over him. Isabel. Fernando. God, it has been such a long time, such a long time…

" _Tanto monta, monta tanto…_ "

" _…_ _Isabel como Fernando._ "

The girls laugh once again and discretely high-five.

"It's been a while since I had last heard that…" Spain muttered.

"What?"

"What?"

The two teens are now looking at him with the eyes open wide and an expression of incredulity and excitement, and it's only then when Spain realises he has said that out-loud. He smiles a bit awkwardly.

"Eh… _Hola_ " he manages to say.

"Are you…?"

"Oh. My. God."

"But are you really…?"

"This can't… Oh, fuck."

The girls babble and fail to make proper sentences. It makes him feel uncomfortable, but it's also kind of amusing, as reflected by the smile that slowly appears on his face.

"Yup, I'm Spain. You can call me Antonio, though. Or Toni, if you like."

One of the girls looks like she's about to faint before such honour, the other seems to be processing all that's happening.

"I would really appreciate if you could keep calm and… not make a scene" he says with a bit of a hurry. "I'm trying to go unnoticed here."

"Well, you're doing a great job there" whispers one of them.

"I was until that tiny slip before" he replies, his smile growing bigger.

"Speaking of which…"

All three glance towards the painting.

" _Isabel I de Castilla._ _Fernando II de Aragon._ "

He whispers the names as if they were sacred. And they are for him, the girls understand. His former monarchs all mean a lot to him, and especially those two. Those two, who set the basis of what would later become the Spanish Empire. Those two, Isabel and Fernando, the Catholic Monarchs.

* * *

Seven centuries. He had been marching forward for seven centuries. It's not like he had been moving non-stop, of course. He just waited for those moments when the Muslims were weak, divided or even fighting between them and it was then when he attacked. It was slow, yes, but efficient: it had taken him seven centuries, but he was regaining all the territory –and the fact that he had lost it in practically ten years didn't matter, or so he told himself-.

It was tough. Not only because his enemies would sometimes strike back with unexpected strength and stop him for some time, but also because he was divided too. It had been hell at first: he was so many little kingdoms that he thought he was going to go insane. However, time chose which ones were the ones to prevail: Castile, Aragon, Navarre. The first two were the ones who marched forward, and it was Castile the one who managed to control most of the territory.

It was around that time when Portugal was born, and Spain was way too busy with his _Reconquista_ for submitting him, so he just let him be. He didn't care so much for the western shore, the Atlantic wasn't worth it- but the Mediterranean was. Oh, he loved that sea and all it promised. So as soon as Aragon could no longer march south, because that would mean attack Castile and not the Muslims, and north meant facing France, against whom a few bitter defeats had been suffered, he looked away from the land and marched onto the sea. It had been then when Romano came into his life.

" _¡Hola!_ My name's Spain and from now on I'm your-"

"I'm hungry!"

"Hello, hungry, I'm Spain!"

"Shut up, asshole! Give me lunch! Bastard!"

If taking control over South Italy had been a good idea, he never was quite sure.

It had always been that way: Castile and Aragon, one went south and the other went east. They were the same –they were _him_ , for God's sake-, but at the same time they were so different that he sometimes believed he was going to go mad. Until the 15th century was reaching its end.

Isabel, sister of the king of Castile, married Fernando, heir to the throne of Aragon; and when both of them became the monarchs of their respective kingdoms, Spain felt complete. Though the differences weren't gone, the king and queen worked together and always aimed for common goals.

"Portugal is exploring the Atlantic."

"Well, he won't be the only one, will he?"

And the Canarias Isles were added to his domains.

"France seems to be rather interested in Italy."

"Oh, is he? We'll have to do something about it."

And suddenly he was always keeping an eye on the Italian-French border and making sure Romano was always close to him.

He had fun. Those had been good times indeed.

* * *

"Toni? You there?"

Spain snapped out of his memories and looked at the girls, only to be met with worried glances.

"Sorry" he muttered. "I was just daydreaming."

"About them?" asked one of them, politely pointing towards the painting of the Catholic Monarchs.

"Yes. I really loved them, you know? They were amazing" he explained.

"We know. We studied them at school."

"No, but what you study is just what they did. I'm not saying that wasn't amazing, either- I mean, they finally expelled the Muslims and were the only European rulers who decided to buy Columbus' project, and all that is great, but… They were just more than that" he ended with a sigh.

"Then you tell us about them."

"Oh, yes! Please!"

He laughs.

"They were absolutely awesome as rulers and some may have found them even terrifying; however, they were also really kind and… childish, even. Of course, that was only in private."

* * *

"So how was your mission, Toni?"

"Don't even ask, Isa. I'm exhausted."

"Next time you should just follow my advice."

"I'm not going to drug Romano so he goes to sleep! What kind of father are you, Fer?!"

"A brilliant one. Aren't I, Isa?"

"Superb."

The sarcasm was palpable. Laughs. Wine. Someone brought up politics, the others threw pillows at him. More laughs. More wine. Spain was happy.

"Oh, dear God, I almost forgot!"

"You have the head in the clouds, woman."

"Well, I didn't see you remember either, man."

Remember what? Spain looked at his queen leave, slightly reeling, and return with a pack in her hands.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart."

He was old. He was centuries old. But he had never been given a birthday present. Ever. He was stunned.

"Well, don't just stand there! Take it and open it!"

A long, elegant, red coat with golden buttons. A suiting hat with a large feather. He didn't know what to say. He put them on. He loved them.

"You look gorgeous!"

"And you're a married woman!"

A laugh, a snort, a pillow in the face.

"I-I really like it. Thank you so very much."

A lonely tear of happiness, a soft, warm kiss on his cheek.

"Anything for our big boy."

A pat on his back, an arm around his shoulder.

"Anything for the hero that makes Romano go to bed."

Laughs. Hugs. Happiness.

* * *

"I was really sad when Isa passed away, and so was Fer. He followed her a few years later and I was left all by myself."

"Not really. The following century you totally rocked!"

"Indeed" he laughs, though he's still a bit sad over the memory of his beloved friends. "Charlie was quite a king."

The girls open their eyes wide and look at each other in disbelief.

"We're talking about Carlos I of Spain and V of Germany, King of the Spanish Empire and Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire- and you just called him _Charlie_?"

"He was raised in Germany, but he was still the Catholic Monarchs' grandson" Spain laughed cheerfully and winked at them. "It was actually him who asked me to just call him Charlie. Much simpler."

"There's a painting of him in this museum! He's on a horse and wields a spear."

"Indeed. Titian, 1548. Want to go and check it out?"

There's no way either of the girls can say _no_ to that offer.

They are already walking down the corridor when Spain turns to them and asks:

"By the way, how should I address you?"

"I'm Inés."

"And I'm Alicia."

* * *

 _AN: how's that for a start? Hope it wasn't just a boring History lesson :/ I don't promise anything, but I'll try to update as soon as possible (even faster if I get any reviews hehe)._

 _*Tanto monta, monta tanto, Isabel como Fernando: 'Tanto monta' was the Catholic Monarchs' motto; the rest is added to represent that both Isabel and Fernando ruled as equals._


	2. II - 16th century: when I was a God

**CHAPTER 2:**

 **16th CENTURY: WHEN I WAS A GOD**

The three of them are staring silently at the painting of Carlos I, or Charlie as Spain calls him. Unlike the other one, this is in the middle of the main corridor; because of this, much more people notice them and they are constantly being observed. However, Spain seems to have forgotten he didn't want to be seen and does nothing to hide himself. As long as no one starts harassing him, it'll be okay.

"I didn't have it easy with Charlie at first" he says, aware that both Inés and Alicia have been waiting for a while for him to speak. "He came from Germany, he had never been to Spain before and he barely spoke Spanish. I didn't really cared about that – he was young and had plenty of time to learn-, but it did bother me that, as soon as he arrived and was recognised as king, he left and spent around two years trying to be elected as the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire."

"Which he did."

"Which he did, indeed" Spain sighs. "He was king of Spain –well, technically speaking, he was king of Castile and Aragon- and Emperor of the HRE, and he also owned South Italy, Flanders –what today is Belgium and the Netherlands, more or less- and our American colonies, which kept growing and growing. It was then when I realised I was becoming the biggest country that was and had been; and when his son Felipe inherited the kingdom of Portugal, I became the Empire where the Sun never set."

His voice is becoming dreamy. Sure enough, the 16th century has been golden to him.

"Charlie and Feli were good kings, I must say" Spain goes on, his gaze fixed in the face of the painting. "Charlie was the last one who actually went to battle and commanded the troops himself, I always loved that. And Feli was really devoted to his work and always had what was best for me in mind. He was the one who stated Madrid as the capital city, by the way."

"Yeah, we already knew all that stuff."

"We had quite a good History teacher."

Spain doesn't seem to have heard them.

"But, you see… When you're the biggest empire in the whole, wide world, there's one thing you'll always have."

"And that'll be…?"

"Enemies."

* * *

France bit the dust. Again. He tried to wake up, but he was way too beaten up and could barely move. He heard footsteps coming closer; suddenly, he was grabbed by the collar and pulled up. When he met the cold gaze those green eyes gave him, he felt shivers running down his spine. The Spanish bastard sure was terrifying.

"My, my, aren't you annoying…" Spain muttered. "How many times do I have to kick your ass until you decide to stop attacking me?"

France didn't answer, it was too much of an effort. But his blue eyes said it all: it didn't matter how many times he was defeated, he wouldn't stop fighting Spain. Because he had to do something, anything, to keep him distracted. Because he feared what might happen if Spain had no obstacles for expanding his empire, he feared what might happen if cheerful, smiling Antonio gained so much power nobody could stand before him. God knows how much he feared that.

Spain dropped him again on the floor. He couldn't lose more time there: Flanders was rebelling again. And those assholes were tough.

"I don't want to be ruled by you" said simply the Netherlands.

Spain frowned. Always with that.

"Well, I'm so sorry, but I do rule you."

"You don't accept Protestantism, you despise it. Give me independence and you won't have to deal with it anymore."

"Don't use religion as an excuse, you hate me and that's all there is."

"I hate you, and you hate me. How about we don't have to see each other anymore?"

"I'd still fight you. I protect the Catholic faith, and you are threatening it. So if I'm going to fight you anyway, I might as well keep controlling you."

He received no reply. The actual battle began.

* * *

"I can't remember all the times I fought France back then" he says, the tiniest smile on his lips.

Inés and Alicia look at him, waiting for him to continue.

"He was the most annoying one, although I actually had fun battling him. I guess the Netherlands was the worst."

"There were others, right?"

"Oh, of course. There was always some war somewhere in Europe, and I used to be involved" he actually laughs this time, though it's not a happy laugh. "I kept fighting with the Turk all over the Mediterranean. And also England used to attack my American colonies. My God, by the end of the century he was pretty annoying."

"What did you do?"

"I said to Felipe: England keeps creating trouble in the New World. Do you know what he replied? 'Ok, let's invade England'."

"Ooooh, right! The Invincible Armada!"

"Shit, why does everyone remember it by that name?" Spain complains. "It was called the _Great_ Armada, and I could have actually invaded England. But- there happened to be an awful storm when it was reaching the British Isles. Almost all of it sank" he sighs. "After that, England thought it would be fun referring to it as 'the Invincible Armada'. What an asshole he is, he still makes fun of me for that."

The girls are trying so hard not to laugh and he knows it. He doesn't matter, though. He knows it's pretty comical. But he doesn't laugh. The mention of America, the New World, his former colonies, has brought back memories. Bad memories. Memories of things he's done, of things he's not proud of.

* * *

The new continent was a wonder and he had the privilege of being the first one to explore it, to colonize it, to claim it as his own. He felt powerful. He _was_ powerful.

He first met the Aztec when he was riding through the jungle. Spain would never forget how the native looked at him: eyes and mouth wide open, in his eyes a look of fear, of disbelief, of worship. He had been taken by a god. And a god he thought he was.

The Aztec guided him to his home. There was gold, a lot of gold. Spain took it.

The Aztec introduced him his people. They were ignorant, they prayed to fake gods. Spain forced his faith into them.

The Aztec showed him his gold and silver mines. They were big and really productive. Spain put the natives to work there for him.

The Aztec begged him to stop the massacre. Spain didn't listen. After all, he was a god.

When the Aztec died and vanished, Spain knew it was his fault, but he didn't mind, not at all. He had many other, more important things to think about.

There was blood in his hands. The blood of thousands of people, of natives he had enslaved or simply slaughtered. Not only had he brought death upon the Aztec, but upon the Inca too, as well as many other tribes that had lived peacefully before his arrival. There was blood in his hands, but who would dare to judge him?

* * *

"… Toni! Antonio! Are you okay? You've gone all pale!"

The worried voice snaps him out of his memories. He takes a deep breath and draws a fake smile on his face.

"Sorry. I was daydreaming. Again" he apologizes.

"About what?"

"Nothing important" he lies.

Everyone knows how cruel he used to be back then. Everyone knows the blood is still in his hands. Everyone knows he doesn't like talking about that. Everyone knows how deeply sorry he is, how utterly guilty he feels about it.

The girls seem to notice he's not feeling comfortable with that, so they go back to their History lesson.

"It must have been crazy to rule half of the world" one of them says.

"Yes, it sure was. Crazy, and bloody exhausting."

"Did you like it?"

"Oh, well… It was rather nice" he answers with a quiet laugh.

Truth is, he loved it. He loved being the biggest empire the world had ever seen, he loved being the most powerful country, he loved being respected, feared by all- no, not by all. There was one who didn't respect him, neither feared him. And the fun part is, for some reason, Spain was fine with it. A genuine smile appears on his face at the thought. He knows he'll never, ever forget that evening.

* * *

He came back victorious. He had won yet another battle. Which one? Against whom? He had no idea. There were so many wars going on, he had absolutely no idea who he was fighting anymore. But that didn't matter, the important thing was that he had won. And so he walked around, standing tall and proud and menacing, reminding everybody who he was and what he was capable of, sending a warning to whomever dared to think of attacking him.

The façade broke down as soon as he entered his room and was no longer seen by anybody else: he collapsed against the wall and walked slowly towards his bed. His war axe was left carelessly on the floor, his red coat was thrown over a chair, his exhausted body sat heavily on the bed. He started unbuttoning his shirt with shaking hands and didn't dare to look down for a while.

"Fuck" he cursed at the sight of his chest.

There were scars and wounds all over it. He knew his back and arms were like that as well. He stroked an especially bad-looking wound on his side and he winced at the pain. He couldn't help but wonder if Rome had gone through the same. The answer was probably yes.

Suddenly the door opened and Romano walked in with a glass of water, which he dropped as soon as he saw Spain's chest.

"Jesus" he whispered right before he ran away.

Spain growled. He wasn't supposed to be seen like that, all pitiful and miserable. He would have to warn Romano about not talking to anyone about what he had witnessed, and also give him a serious talk about knocking the door before entering a room. That would be later, he didn't feel like it at the moment. He just wanted to sleep.

The door opened and Romano came in again. This time he was carrying bandages, wine and some other stuff Spain didn't get to see.

"Take off your shirt" ordered the child while he walked to his side.

"What?"

It had been such a long time since any other nation had dared to boss him around.

"You're hurt, and I can't help you if you keep your shirt on" he explained.

Spain was stunned. Why was Romano doing that? He thought the entire world hated him, especially all his colonies. He wouldn't have noticed he was taking off his shirt if it weren't because of the pain that simple action brought.

With an ability Spain had never thought he possessed, Romano began treating his wounds. He cleaned them with wine and bandaged them, all with a soft tenderness that surprised Spain more than anything. In the end, he just had to ask the question.

"Why are you doing this, Romano?"

The child looked at him with his bright, golden eyes.

"You're hurt" he answered as though it was obvious.

"Yeah, but…" Spain struggled to find the words. "No one else… I mean…" he sighed. "Don't you hate me?"

Romano's eyes opened wide in surprise.

"No. Not at all. Why would I?"

Why would he? There were hundreds of reasons, or at least that's what Spain thought. However, when Romano kept talking, he found out just how wrong he was.

"Okay, so you're a bit annoying and you boss me around. But you're also nice to me: you buy me clothes, you feed me, you give me tomatoes, you comfort me when I get hurt, you calm me down when I'm scared, you cheer me up when I'm sad. You care for me, so I care for you in return."

Spain felt so touched. Without thinking what he was doing, he wrapped his arms around Romano and hugged him.

"Thank you" he whispered.

That's all he knew he could say before bursting into tears and he certainly didn't want that. He still had his pride, after all.

Romano's cheeks turned red and he quickly pushed Spain away.

"Shut up and let me finish. Bastard."

* * *

"What do you think he's thinking about now?"

"A fight with France?"

"Nah, he seems way too happy for that."

"A victory against France, then."

The quiet whispers bring him back to the present. He looks at Inés and Alicia, who seem to study his reactions with interest.

"I was thinking about nothing of that" he informs, and before they can ask, he turns around and starts walking. "I think we're done here, let's keep moving. Velázquez is waiting for us!"

He doesn't look back to see if they follow him. The footsteps behind him tell him all. He smiles widely. He really likes these girls.


	3. III - 17th century: the golden decline

**CHAPTER 3:**

 **17th CENTURY: THE GOLDEN DECLINE**

The room that holds some of Velázquez's masterpieces is big and oval. It has portraits of the king Felipe IV, his queen, his son, his right hand –the count-duke of Olivares-; but the painting that stands over the rest is _Las Meninas_. The princess Margarita is in the centre, surrounded by two maids, two imps, two courtiers; Velázquez himself is on the left side, painting a big canvas. The final touch is the mirror at the end of the room, where the reflection of the two monarchs can be seen.

"I bloody love this painting" Inés whispers.

"So do I" Spain replies. "Diego was indeed a wonderful painter."

"Would you say he's the best?"

"The best? Well, that's saying the hell of a lot… I mean, there's also Goya, Dalí, Picasso… It's not as if I haven't had amazing artists" he quiets for a moment and thinks before speaking again. "He might be, however, the best painter of the 17th century. I'll give him that, and that's also quite a lot."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. The 17th century was… complicated."

"The fall from grace?" asks Alicia.

Spain pouts.

"It wasn't like that… Okay, I lost power and territories, but that's it. I no longer was the most powerful, but I was on equal terms with England and France."

"Sorry" she apologizes with a tiny laugh.

"The irony of that century is funny, though" Spain goes on. "Historians chose to call it 'The Golden Century', even though it was a bit of a disaster."

"But that was because of the literature and stuff, right?"

"Exactly. Oh, you should have met Cervantes, or Lope de Vega."

"I like Quevedo better."

"Oh, he was quite a character…" he laughs.

* * *

"Dear God, Francisco, have you been exiled again?"

"Apparently the king didn't like my last couple of sonnets" Quevedo replied while he kept packing. "He says he's Spanish, but his German roots are stronger and thus can't appreciate my sarcasm."

"I bet Góngora will be very pleased when he hears about this" Spain teased.

Quevedo looked at him with rage in his eyes at the mention of his nemesis, his archenemy, and Spain only smiled widely, openly amused. He just loved how the two poets battled through their verses, it was hilarious. Especially when Góngora used an extremely rhetoric and pompous style while Quevedo would go for the plainest of insults. God knows how much he had laugh when he read the sonnet Quevedo wrote about Góngora's nose: _There was a man to a nose stuck…_

"Will you go to France?"

"Yeah, and I'll have to write a shit ton of poems flattering His Stick-Up-The-Ass Majesty or praising that pompous, humour senseless count-duke until I'm allowed to come back."

"And then you'll manage to offend them and be exiled again" Spain sighed, although he was still smiling. "Oh, and by the way, you're going to miss Lope's last play!"

"I know, it's a shame. But I swear to God, that man is a prodigy. I bet that by the time I get back, he'll have written another."

"Quite possibly."

"And he'll have had another affair."

"That's even more possible."

Spain loved that son of a bitch and really missed him when he was forced to leave. Which, unfortunately, happened quite often.

"What a shame, what a shame…" Lope murmured when he heard the news. "I'd have liked him to come and see my last play, I think he would have really enjoyed it."

"He wanted to come, too" Spain assures him. "Just be sure that you have another one by the time he comes back."

"Of course, dear friend. There's a reason why they call me 'The Wit Phoenix'."

England could keep William Shakespeare. Spain liked Lope de Vega way better. And even though his plays were nothing remarkable, Miguel de Cervantes was awesome too- who hadn't heard of _Don Quixote_?

* * *

Apparently, Inés and Alicia have gotten used to Spain's daydreaming, because they wait patiently for him to come back to the present. They seem to understand what he's going through.

"Literature was golden indeed" he asserts. "But when it came to politics…"

'Chaos' is not the appropriate word. It's more like… disinterest. Whereas during the previous century the two kings, Carlos I and Felipe II, had been very keen about their work, the kings of the 17th century weren't interested at all. Felipe III, Felipe IV and Carlos II didn't rule, they left the responsibility to others. The duke of Lerma and the duke of Osuna, the count-duke of Olivares, some bishops…

"It was impossible to maintain such a huge empire" he explains. "Not with wars going on everywhere and with everybody attacking me. My kings decided it was too much pressure for them and chose men of their trust to carry their duties."

"But maybe that was for the best, right? I mean, they were suitable for the task, especially the count-duke" Alicia argues, pointing to the portrait of Olivares.

"He was, he was. Geez, if it hadn't been for that bloody Richelieu in France, Olivares would have been the biggest man of his time. But he made a mistake and had to leave. Pity."

* * *

"So what's your wonderful idea?"

"The royal arcs are empty. We're broke."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Do you know why we're broke?"

"Because we have so many wars and the soldiers must be pay?"

"Because we have so many wars and the soldiers must be pay, and battle ships must be made, and weapons must be bought, and-"

"Okay, okay! And what do you want me to do?"

"The problem is that everything is so fucking expensive and only the territories of Castile pay, idiot!"

"…"

"What I'm trying to say is that we should change this stupid system. Unite Castile and Aragon's laws. Make them both equal."

"Yeah… Not gonna work."

"Oh, are you a seer now?"

Historians would later call it 'the Crisis of 1640'. The peoples from Aragon rebelled against Olivares' reform and not only it was never pulled out, but the count-duke had to resign.

Spain would have said 'I told you so' if he weren't so furious. That inner conflict had caused much more than Olivares' fall: Portugal took advantage of the situation and regained its independence; and he had been forced to sign a peace treaty with the rebels from Flanders. He could bear the first one, but the second was simply outrageous. He, the Spanish Empire, who owned half of the bloody world, had had to sit and dialogue and reach an agreement with a bunch of peasants _on equal terms_! It showed weakness. Spain knew that all of Europe waited patiently for the perfect moment to jump at his throat.

* * *

"And what about the others?"

"Lerma and Osuna were father and son. They did a good job, too, but also were sooo corrupt. They used to act thinking not only in me, but also in them."

"Some things never change…"

Spain buries his face in his hands, but he's not sure whether he's hiding his embarrassment or his smile.

"Anyway, wars kept happening, I kept fighting, my resources kept decreasing" he bites his lower lip. "And of course, France was the annoying bastard who wouldn't stop picking fights. Especially by the end of the century, when my king was Carlos II."

"Oh, oh! He had a nickname…"

" _The bewitched_ " Spain nods. "He was called that because he was really petite and weak. Actually, we were all surprised that he lived up to almost forty years. All of Europe was waiting for his decease from the moment he was crowned."

"He was also called that because he was sterile, right?"

"True. He couldn't have children. That's what five generations of marriages between the same family does to people" he sighs. "On his last years, his many advisors pushed him so hard, they kept telling him that he needed a heir. In the end, he literally fucked himself to death."

The girls chuckle, though they're not sure whether that's fun or not. Spain sighs again and runs a hand through his hair. He would giggle too if it weren't for what came after that.

* * *

"Toni…" the king coughed.

He ran to the side of his bed and knelt so their heads were on the same level.

"What is it? Do you need anything? Water? Shall I go look for the doctor?"

"No" Carlos answered weakly. "On that desk over there" he pointed to the other side of the room with a trembling finger, "there's my testament".

Spain quickly picked it up and went back to the bed.

"Have you solved the inheritance problem?" he asked softly.

The king nodded slowly.

"I've chosen Felipe d'Anjou as your new king."

"Oh, that's…"

He froze mid-sentence. A Frenchman? Out of all the possibilities he had chosen _a Frenchman_?

"… that's not quite what I expected" he finished. "Why him?"

Before the dying king could explain himself, Spain suddenly jumped. He had just realised what would happen if Felipe became his king and he did not like that one bit.

"You're practically giving me as a present to France!" he exclaimed. "What do you think will happen? I mean, how old's the guy? Huh? Sixteen? Seventeen? He's going to be his grandfather's puppet! It's Louis XIV we're talking about, the bloody Sun King! I'll become France's… France's little bitch! I…" his face suddenly went pale in horror. "We won't end up getting married, right? I wouldn't stand being married to Francis! I'd rather have him as my enemy!"

"Jesus Christ, calm down" Carlos managed to interrupt Spain's terrified monologue. "You won't have to marry France, don't panic about that. If Felipe accepts to become your new king, he'll have to give up his right to become king of France. And he'll also have to keep all your territories as yours."

Spain sighed, calmer but not entirely relieved.

"Okay, that's fine, that's… yeah, that's great, but why the hell have you chosen him? You have plenty of relatives among the royal houses of Europe. The archduke Carlos of Austria, for example! He's related to you just like Felipe, why don't you choose him? That way, the Habsburg line will remain!"

"I already thought that, Antonio, and I've reached the conclusion that Felipe is a better choice" explained the king, putting a tremendous effort for pronouncing every single word. "All over my rule as king we've been submerged in an endless fight with France. And it goes back to centuries. It will end if your new line of monarchs is French."

"Hmpf."

Spain sat again on the bed. He had to admit that Carlos was right. The last two centuries had been a living hell for him: all those wars, all those enemies, all those casualties… It would be quite curious, he thought, becoming France's ally – _ally, not subordinate_ \- after more than two hundred years of war after war after war. And after all, it's not that he hated Francis. He just was very annoying. Nothing he couldn't deal with.

"I guess I'll give you this one, Charlie" he sighed, calling his monarch by the nickname he had used for his great-great grandfather. "Let's have a French king."

Carlos didn't answer. Spain drew a sad smile on his face, got up and left the room, holding close the testament, to let the rest of the world know the decision of the now deceased king.

* * *

"At first, it seemed that everything was going to turn out just fine" Spain pouts. "But of course, it didn't."

"War broke out again, right?"

"Yes, and practically all of Europe got in. Because the bloody, stupid archduke Carlos didn't accept the testament and decided to fight for his rights to my throne" he snorts, clearly mad at it. "And that war was…"

"What?"

"… the beginning of the end."

* * *

 _AN: ahem I'm starting university tomorrow so I don't know if I'll be able to update soon from now on. I can prmise I'll try, because otherwise I'll forget all the History I learnt this past year and won't be able to continue XP_

 _*'The Wit Phoenix': Lope de Vega received that nickname because everytime he wrote a play, everybody thought that he had reached the top; however, the next one was even better and so on._

 _Also, Quevedo and Góngora have the best rivalry in the history of literature x)_


	4. IV - The war no one won but I lost

**CHAPTER 4:**

 **THE WAR NO ONE WON BUT I LOST**

They move to a room that has a bench so they can sit; they don't pay any attention to the paintings on the walls. No one has spoken since they left Velázquez's main room: Spain needs some time to face the memories he always tries to supress and the girls understand it must be hard for him.

"France really liked the deal" he says finally. "No one would have turned it down, and not even he is stupid enough."

* * *

"Does Felipe accept the terms of the testament?"

"He does."

"Okay, then… I guess we'll have to… get along and all that… from now on."

Spain and France shook hands, a bit awkwardly the first, extremely pleased the second.

"I must say I'll miss fighting you" France confessed with a tiny laugh.

"I'll miss punching you in the face and kicking your ass" Spain smiled back.

* * *

"For the first few months everything went perfectly fine. I had a new king, Francis and I had become allies; no problem."

"Did you really have no problems at all with France?"

"No, not really" Spain giggles. "It's not like we didn't get along, we had known each other since childhood."

He stretches his arms and moves in the bench, looking for a more comfortable position. Inés and Alicia are sitting each at one side of his, surrounding him, and wait patiently for him to continue.

"The 18th century began with a huge change: France and I, who had been practically archenemies for hundreds of years, became allies; and Austria, with whom I had held an alliance for the last couple of centuries, became my enemy."

"You had been Austria's ally?"

"Yes. Our kings both belonged to the Habsburg line, it was only natural that they helped each other. However, Carlos was the last of his kin to rule me and he chose a Bourbon as his heir; it's easy to tell why that made me France's ally and no longer Austria's."

"He didn't like that, right? I mean Austria, of course."

" _He didn't like that?_ That's like saying that Louis XVI got cut while shaving" Spain snorts, making the girls chuckle. "He was furious."

He still remembers clearly Austria's reaction when he heard the news.

* * *

"SPAIN, WE NEED TO TALK!" Austria screamed while entering the room.

The Spaniard jumped on his chair, startled, and accidentally knocked over the inkpot that stood on the table.

"For God's sake, Roderich!" he yelled, trying to save all the documents from the ink-flood. "Don't you know how to knock? And don't go around squawking at people like that!"

Ignoring completely all that was being said, Austria grabbed Spain's shoulders and forced the other nation to face him.

"I feel you're a little nervous" Spain smiled, in a useless attempt to calm him.

"This is no time for jokes, Antonio."

It wasn't like he hadn't noticed that already: Austria's purple eyes burned with rage and all his body shivered as if it were going to explode at any moment.

"Okay, okay" he murmured, trying to get rid of the Austrian's grip -without making it-. "What do you want?"

"Don't play dumb with me. You know why I'm here."

"Do I?"

"Antonio Fernández Carriedo" hissed Austria in a really menacing tone. "I said: don't-play-dumb."

Spain narrowed his eyes and gave the other his most terrifying look, the one that only saw his enemies right before being defeated. He _hated_ when he was called by his full name, as a mother would call her son when she's really pissed with him. He slapped Austria's hands off his shoulders and would have pushed him if he hadn't controlled himself. Before speaking, he straightened and raised his chin: Austria was taller than him, but Spain somehow managed to look down at him.

"My new king is French and as consequence I'm allied with France now" he almost spat.

"And why exactly is your new king French and not Austrian?"

"Because my fucking king wanted so!" he shouted in reply.

They looked at each other directly in the eyes. Austria could have sworn that Spain's sparked with suppressed rage; Spain thought that Austria's were much colder than usual.

"So you have a French king now" Austria broke the silence with an unusual, eerie, calm voice. "Are you okay with it?"

"Shouldn't I? I don't hate Francis, Rod, I really don't. And after all these centuries of wars, I think it's understandable that I want some peace."

Austria let out a short, derogative laugh.

"I didn't think you so naïve, Toni. Do you really think there's going to be peace?"

"What?"

Spain couldn't suppress an expression of surprise that almost immediately turned into deep rage.

"Roderich…" he whispered threateningly. "I really do hope that you're not planning to do anything stupid."

"I'm going to fight for what belongs to me. Is that stupid?"

"I don't belong to you! Nor do I belong to France!"

"Your monarchy must remain with the Habsburgs. I'll make sure of that."

Before Spain could answer or do anything at all, Austria turned around and left the room, closing the door with a loud bang.

Spain's colonies had gathered around his boss' room as soon as the yelling had started and barely managed to get off the way of the furious Austrian, who walked away fast while mumbling God knew what in German. Spain's voice came from the inside and all sorts of obscenities and insults could be heard; and when he stormed out with all his body shaking with rage and his eyes on fire, they all rapidly hid. Nobody wanted to be around Spain when he was in a bad mood.

"You. Take this to France as fucking fast as you can" he ordered to the first messenger he spotted, as he handed him a piece of paper in which he had written: _Francis, Roderich just declared us war. Get your bloody army ready and you'd better not let me down_. "If you lose it, I'll kill you with my own hands; if you're killed on your way there, I'll personally go down to Hell and kill you again. Go!"

The terrified messenger got on a horse and rode out so fast he almost didn't notice. Spain watched him leave, his eyes following the dust trail and his arms crossed before his chest. His colonies, who watched him from his hiding places, could only think that he looked as powerful and unbeatable as ever, perhaps even more. Only Romano caught the glimpse of worry that crossed the green eyes.

* * *

"So Austria declared war, but weren't France and you much more powerful?"

"Austria wasn't weak back then, he too was powerful. But you're right, there's no way he could have defeated France and I together."

Spain ruffles his hair and lets out the tiniest of sighs.

"There were two problems, though. The first one: England joined forces with him."

"I bet he did that only so he had an excuse to fight France."

"I think so too, but he always denies it" Spain laughs. "No, seriously, he did that because he was scared of the change. France and I had always fought him, but the last time we had done it as allies had been in the Hundred Years' War. He feared that he'd be our first target -which, let's be honest, was quite possible- and he also didn't like the idea of a hegemonic power in Europe."

"Nah, he just wanted to punch France in the face."

"And who wouldn't?"

The three laugh for a bit before sadness is again readable all over Spain's face.

"The other problem" he goes on, slowly, "is that the peoples of Aragon didn't like the change either and swore loyalty to Austria."

* * *

"Are you alright?"

"Yes."

France didn't believe him, but Spain's tone was more than enough to keep him from asking. They had just returned from a battle which had had no winner, as usual, and they were both exhausted. It wasn't Spain's injuries what worried France, however, but the fact that he had been coughing for the whole day. He knew it had to do with his people fighting against each other; he knew that war had to end as soon as possible, for all of Europe's sake, but particularly for Antonio's. He kept wondering how much his friend would be able to resist before crashing down, overwhelmed by all the conflicts surrounding him.

"Do you think this war will end any time soon?" Spain asked suddenly, as if he had read his mind.

"I hope so", he sighed in reply. "But who will win?"

That was a question nobody had an answer for. Both sides were so matched that it seemed like the war would be won thanks to divine intervention. Spain coughed again.

"Ten years of war already…" he murmured. "Am I really that big of a prize?"

France didn't answer. It wasn't like Spain was expecting it anyway.

* * *

"But in the end you and France won, right?"

"No. There was no winner."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. After almost fourteen years, we were still like in the beginning" Spain sighs. Remembering that episode seems to be painful for him. "It was England the one who thought that we should sit down and talk."

"And Felipe was accepted as your new king."

"Indeed. But I wish that was all what came out of that meeting."

Inés and Alicia look at him questioningly, but he remains silent for a bit. He finally lets out a tiny sigh and looks at some point of the floor.

"There was no winner, but there certainly was a loser. And that was me."

* * *

"They're signing the peace treaty", France announced as he came into the room.

All Spain did was raise a thumb as a sign of approval. He was sitting on a chair, thanking God for putting an end to that war from which, he feared, it would take him a while to recover. All the countries involved had received their fair amount of damage, but he had taken the worst part.

"So what now?" he asked.

He hadn't gone to the meeting. Neither had France, or Austria or England; they had left everything on their leaders' hands. The other nations, however, had been keeping an eye –or rather, an ear- on what was being discussed.

"For starters, Felipe will be your king."

So the French candidate had been the one to finally become his ruler. That made Spain feel like throwing up: all that war could have been prevented is Austria hadn't been such a-

"We're still not allowed to get married", France went on, pulling him out of his thoughts, "which, I have to say, is a shame."

"Enough with your flirting. What else?"

"Well… You see, this was a treaty signed by everyone as equals, nobody surrendered, so every nation had to… get something."

Spain's gaze turned cold.

"And what does that mean?"

France swallowed before proceeding to answer. He knew his friend wasn't going to like what was coming.

"England is getting from you Menorca and Gibraltar. He also wanted us to recognize certain ports all over the world as his- really, this guy's too obsessed with the sea."

"He's an island, what would you expect?" Spain replied, his face not showing any emotion. Of course England would grab any chance he had for taking territories from him, that much he had expected. "What else?"

"Flanders will no longer be under your command."

That wasn't a surprise either. After having fought the Netherlands for many years, it seemed that he was finally going to get his independence. All that Spain would regret was losing Belgium's sweetness.

"And what's Austria getting?"

"He… he's the one who'll get the most…"

"And that is…"

France muttered something, but Spain didn't hear it. He frowned. That didn't look good.

"Francis. What is Austria getting?"

"… South Italy."

The whole world seemed to freeze for a moment. Spain stared at France, open-mouthed, suddenly unable to speak; and Francis only stared back, feeling sad at the devastation that came from his friend's green eyes.

"Romano… B-But he can't… No… I…" Antonio stuttered.

"He'll go to your place tomorrow morning to pick him up", Francis notified quietly. "I'm sorry", he added after a while.

* * *

"So that's when England got Gibraltar…"

"Yes. The asshole won't give it back."

The pout Spain makes then is hilarious and makes the girls laugh out loud, which gets them an angry look from one of the security guards.

"Maybe if you ask him nicely…"

Antonio raises an eyebrow, as if the thought of being nice towards England has never occurred to him.

"To be honest", he confesses then, "I don't think I'll ever get it back."

"What makes you think that?"

"… maybe the fact that in the last centuries all I've done is lose, never win."

* * *

"You're late, bastard!"

It was the last time he would hear Romano say that. That's why, instead of scolding him for his language –as he usually would-, he kneeled so he would be at his level and hugged him tightly.

"… huh? Oi! What do you think you're doing? Let me go!"

Completely ignoring Romano's protests, Spain kept hugging him. Eventually, the child stopped fighting; and it was only then when he noticed the tears running down his boss' cheeks.

"W-What is it? Why are you crying?"

If he had learnt something in the last few centuries, it was that the mighty Spanish Empire _did not cry_. Not in front of others, at least, and right then anybody could see them.

"I'm sorry…" Spain whispered, and the Romano felt scared.

"S-Sorry for what?"

Spain pulled out of the hug so he could look the boy in the eyes.

"You know there has been a war going on for too many years, right?"

Of course he did. All of Europe had been shaking because of it, and he had been no exception. He nodded.

"Well, a peace treaty has been signed and… among all its clauses… it's stated that… that you're to live with Austria from now on."

It took Romano a few moments to realize what that implied. When he did, he felt a knot in his throat and tears flooded his eyes, though he refused to let them fall. When Spain hugged him again, he buried his face in his boss' shoulder.

"It won't be that bad", Spain muttered. "You'll get to live with your brother."

 _But Austria will never be as nice to me as you are, you jerk. He won't forgive me for being clumsy, nor will he cheer me up when I'm scared. He won't give me tomatoes when I'm hungry and his smile –if he's actually able to do so- is not half as beautiful and shining as yours._ Romano said nothing of this out loud, but the way he grappled to Spain was more than enough to let the other know.

* * *

"Goodbyes are always hard."

The way he says it is so simple, as if he were just notifying that it's sunny outside. However, his eyes reflect such a deep sadness that it sends a shiver down the girls' spines. They're just now starting to realize that the man they're sandwiching is actually centuries old, and that he's lost more than they can ever imagine.

However, Spain's cheerful smile is soon sparkling in his face again.

"But the good part is that they're usually followed by new beginnings."

* * *

 _AN: I got a new laptop and I'm so pumped up I'm writing all I haven't written in the last few months :P I don't know how long it will take me to write the new chapter, though, university is taking much more time that I had expected/hoped. We'll see._


	5. V - Succesion wars: old and new friends

_AN: *rises from the dead* Update! :D I was pressuring a certain someone to update a certain story when said someone asked when I was going to update this one *glares all the way from Spain to Canada* so here you have a new chaper :3 I think it's the longest this far, I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 5:**

 **SUCCESION WARS: OLD AND NEW FRIENDS**

After having rest for a while, the three of them resume their stroll through the museum, Spain occasionally pointing at a painting and dropping random bits of information. None of them can exactly tell how, but they somehow end up in front of Velázquez's paintings again. This time they're on a secondary room, but the painting that's before them is a masterpiece, just like _Las Meninas_.

"Ah, _La rendición de Breda_ ," says Alicia.

"Also known as _Las lanzas_ ," says Inés.

Spain says nothing. He's looking at the painting with rather dreamy eyes, as his mind travels back in time for the umpteenth time this day.

* * *

"Ah, _La rendición de Breda_ ," said Felipe in his heavily accented Spanish, scanning the painting up and down. Spain, by his side, remained silent. "I had heard rumours of Velázquez's talent, and I must say they don't do justice to this magnificent piece of art."

"Wait till you see _Las Meninas_ , Majesty," Spain replied softly.

Felipe –Felipe _the Fifth_ , Spain had to remind himself– didn't appear to have heard him. He was looking at the painting with his brow furrowed and seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Antonio, feeling uncomfortable by his king's silence, tried to keep occupied by pulling at a lost strand of his shirt's sleeve. If Felipe didn't react soon, he'd completely ruin the shirt.

"What does it feel like?" Felipe asked suddenly, slightly startling Spain.

"Uh… What does _what_ feel like?"

Felipe's answer was a firm finger pointing towards the painting. Spain understood. What did winning feel like? What did the power, the strength, feel like? He glanced at the picture, trying to evoke the feels from so many decades ago. He looked at the victorious Spanish army, so proudly displaying his spears, his flags; he looked at the defeated Dutch rebels, with low glances and fear in the eyes; he looked at the two figures that stood in the middle of the picture, the commanders of both armies, one going down on one knee while handing the keys to the city, while the other stopped him while giving him a rather patronizing look.

"It feels great," he answered in a low voice, barely even noticing it.

"I thought so." Felipe finally turned and looked at him directly in the eye. "Kingdom of Spain, for now you can finally be called that, I give you my word that I'll do all I can to bring back all your lost glory."

"It won't be easy, even with France as an ally," Spain warned, though he couldn't hold back a smile. "Perhaps if England were to choke on a scone and die…" he joked.

For the first time since they had met, Felipe let out a cheerful laugh, which was soon followed by Spain's. Maybe, he mused, the change hadn't been so bad after all.

* * *

"… Now!"

"… Now!"

"… Now!"

Spain comes back to the present and looks at the girls, trying to understand what the reason behind their _nows_ is. He immediately realizes it's him: they were playing "guess when Toni will stop daydreaming". He scowls at them and they only giggle.

"So what was it this time?"

"Nothing, just a promise Felipe made before this very painting."

"What promise?"

Before answering, Spain signals to another bench and they all go to take a seat.

"He said he'd make me great again," _as if I weren't great anymore_ , "whatever the cost might be. Of course," he runs a hand through his hair, while letting out a chuckle, "he couldn't just start invading other countries, that'd go against the treaty of Utrecht." Both Inés and Alicia notice he practically spits that name. They can only imagine how many times England has shoved that piece of paper on Spain's face whenever the latter has tried to claim Gibraltar back. "So he decided that we'd get into every single war that broke out on Europe– if we were on the winner side, then we could retrieve some of the lost territories."

"Did it work?"

"Yes!"

* * *

The year was 1733. Another succession war had burst in Europe; in Poland, to be precise. When France went to Spain to ask for his ally's help, he was met with the pleasant surprise that the Spanish army was ready to fight. Felipe wasn't a man who swore in vain.

Spain himself felt excited. As soon as he was allowed to, he led his army out to the battlefield, full of adrenalin, although he couldn't help but feel a bit adamant towards having to fight Austria again. It almost felt as if they were resuming the war they had put an end to back in 1714, with only one difference: this time, he was going to make sure that he wouldn't be the loser.

"You know, Toni," France said after one particularly easy victory. "I'll never understand why you must use such an inelegant weapon."

"It's efficient," Spain shrugged while cleaning his halberd.

"That I can't deny. I tasted it myself more than enough times."

"You only have yourself to blame for that."

Francis chuckled and threw a pebble at Antonio, which he dodged easily.

"Hey," France called him, suddenly, serious. "How are you? I mean, I know it mustn't be easy having to fight Roderich, after all the time you two have been together."

Spain, who had been listening absently while cleaning his axe, stopped and glanced at his friend.

"I'm dealing with it."

He didn't say anything else for the rest of the evening; the next morning, though, he went back to his usual, cheerful self.

* * *

"Can I make a shot in the dark and guess what the first thing you wanted to get back was?" Inés ask, giggling softly.

"It really isn't that hard to guess," Alicia replies, though chuckling as well.

Spain makes a fake pout, in a useless attempt to hide a smile. He has the feeling he's always been rather predictable.

* * *

"To victory!" France yelled, rising his cup filled with wine.

"To victory," Spain repeated, mimicking his actions.

It had only taken two years to prove to Austria that their combined strength was more than enough to defeat him, though they had kept fighting for another three years until everyone agreed to sign a peace treaty.

"Felipe said that we'll be relegating on you all the negotiation."

"No problem, _chéri_."

"I don't really like that, but at least it means I can get as pissed as I want tonight. You, on the other hand…" Spain burst out laughing at the heartbroken look Francis threw at him.

"Anything in particular you'd like to get?" asked Francis, a naughty smile appearing on his face.

"I want South Italy," Spain answered quickly. "Not negotiable."

"Of course."

France would always be amazed at how predictable his friend could sometimes be.

A few weeks passed until Spain finally heard that high-pitched voice he loved so much. He was wandering through one of his many palaces with France, talking about this and that, nonsense in its majority, when the main door opened and, before he could even be announced, Romano came in running as if the devil itself were behind him.

"Lovi!" he exclaimed, a bit surprised to see him, as he had expected his arrival to be a few days later. He ran nonetheless towards his little boy, wanting nothing more than to hold him again, hug him and told him just how much he had missed him and… and he was left shocked and heartbroken when Romano dodged him and instead when straight towards France. "Uh… Lovi?"

A tirade of profanities left the kid's mouth as he reached France and kicked him harshly on the shin. The Frenchman yelped, surprised by the sudden attack, and watched in awe as Romano retreated and sought refuge in Spain's arms.

"… THE FUCK?"

Spain laughed, amused at hearing that expression coming from the lips of polite, well-mannered France, and hugged Romano tightly.

"I swear I didn't teach him that," he said to France, wearing an innocent smile, before running away.

France, whose shin hurt as hell, caught a glimpse of Romano sticking his tongue out at him before they disappeared behind the corner, and he could have sworn that he heard the muffled sound of a high-five. He groaned and went back to his room, trying to suppress his limp.

* * *

"So you got Romano back?" asks Inés, happily.

"Yes," Spain smiles, though it's not a really happy smile, "albeit briefly."

"Briefly?" Alicia asks.

"Well… Back then, Felipe's first wife had passed away and his second wife was rather… uh…" Spain scratches the back of his neck, trying to come up with the appropriate word to describe that woman. In the end, he just gives up and proceeds to drop a tirade of words. "Lordly, proud, arrogant, dominant, bossy…"

"She might as well have been my mum," Inés mumbles. Alicia chuckles at that.

"Isabel de Farnesio, she was called," Spain goes on, unaware of it. "She was Italian. When Felipe's first wife died, his grandfather wanted for him another woman like that one: obedient, calm. He failed."

"He was trying to control Felipe and thus the whole empire, right?"

"Indeed. He actually had a noble in my court to keep an eye on him, to influence him: the _princesse des Ursins_. She was like a snake, always plotting and playing with Felipe as if he were a puppet. That is, until Isabel arrived. We all thought she was just another gullible, scared little princess, but the moment she arrived, she practically kicked her ass back to France and _she_ became the new puppeteer."

"What does it have to do with Romano?"

"Ah, well, you see… Felipe had two kids. The first one, Luis I, had already been my king–"

"For less than a year!" both Inés and Alicia exclaim at the same time.

"For exactly 229 days," Spain nods. "In January of 1724, Felipe stepped down on him, but when Luis passed away after barely eight months, he became the king again. I think it's the only time in history that the succession line has actually gone back.

"Anyway, back in 1738, when I got Romano back, Felipe had three kids: one from his former wife, two from Isabel. The chances of Isabel's sons becoming my king were practically null, and she _wanted_ her kids to be kings. So when we got Romano back, she decided that he was to be an independent kingdom under my influence, obviously reigned by her eldest son.

"I still got to see Romano and we definitely weren't as apart as we had been since 1714, but… it just wasn't the same as before."

Despite his words, he once again has a bright smile on his face. He really can't complain about those years. If he had believed that 1738 had been intense, he just wasn't ready for 1748.

* * *

"Toni, sweetheart, pick up that crazy axe of yours. We're going to kick someone's ass."

Those had been the exact words France had said. Spain had complied, rather curious as to what was happening. It was 1740, only two years had passed since the last war had ended, but by then he was more than used to barely having time to rest between one war and another.

"So where are we going this time?"

"Austria. Another succession war, the third one in a row," France answered. "We're allies of the Kingdom of Prussia."

Now that was interesting. Spain had barely met Prussia when Carlos V had become Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and despite having fought against him occasionally –the most recent one being precisely the Polish succession war–, he really couldn't say that he knew the albino.

"I have the feeling that this is going to be fun."

It turned out to be more than fun. Although at first he was shocked by Prussia's self-praising attitude, his lack of modesty and his annoying laugh, he quickly got to like the guy. It didn't take long for the three of them to become the greatest of friends, and in spite of being in the middle of a war, they somehow managed to find free nights to go out and have some fun.

"Gilbo, I think you've had more than enough of that piss you call beer."

"Shut up, Francis!" hiccupped Prussia. "It's not –hic– piss, and it's tastier th– hic– than your girly drink."

France, utterly offended, placed his hand over his heart in the most dramatic fashion.

" _Sacrebleu!_ How dare you! Wine's not girly! Toni!" he called his friend for help, but when the albino and the blond looked to the brunet, they found him with a glass of beer on one hand and a cup of wine on the other, alternately drinking from one and the other.

" _¿Qué?_ " he said when he noticed the others' glances. "I'm not picky." And he resumed his drinking.

He only realized they were an awful influence on him in 1748, when they finally proclaimed themselves as winners. He remembered Prussia cockily yelling something about Roderich and his "stick up the ass", his "prim attitude" and his "stupid spectacles"; he remembered France urging them to go celebrate victory "as victories ought to be celebrated"; and he remembered being extremely excited by the thought of going out without worries or responsibilities.

After that, he remembered– nothing, actually. Just a big, black hole in his memory.

What he did remember was waking up in Prussia's stables, half buried under his friends, all of them missing some item of clothing, and with a headache that lasted for two days.

It was worth it.

* * *

Spain is caught between joy and shame at those memories –or rather, at the lack of them–. He decides that he'd better not tell the girls about it. Yes, Spaniards are known for their parties and their joy towards life, but that doesn't mean he should go around telling anecdotes of all the times he's been pissed, right? To avoid the questions he fears are coming, he decides to continue his history lesson.

"Felipe had a rather aggressive policy, but his son Fernando went for another more… relaxed."

"Pacifist?"

Spain laughs. "Everything but pacifist. He stopped getting into wars, and he opted instead for strengthening the army, the navy… It's not that he didn't like wars, it's just that he considered we needed to get stronger before actually fighting. I must say, he did a wonderful job."

"So no more wars to talk about?"

"Not under his reign, that's for sure. His successor did get into wars, taking advantage of Fernando's work."

"I thought he didn't have sons," Alicia scowls.

"He didn't. As funny as it may be, he had no heirs when he died, so the next king, Carlos III, was his brother. His _half_ -brother, the first son of Felipe and Isabel, who at that time was still king of Naples."

"So Isabel's son did become your king, in the end!"

"Yes, and what a king he turned out to be! Now he's another one that earned to be called _Charlie_ ," Spain winks joyfully. "He only committed one mistake, but he was quick to fix it. He had been ruling a country for many years and he was already a grown-up man– he really was a good king."

* * *

"Antonio! I'm so glad to see you again!"

Spain smiled widely as his new king walked towards him. Many years had passed since he had left to become Romano's ruler –he made a quick note-to-self: ask Carlos about his boy–.

"It's great to see you too," he answered, hugging him. "But, if I may ask… Why did you bring so many people with you?"

"They're all men of my trust, those who served me back in Italy and I expect them to continue doing so here."

Spain eyed Carlos' entourage critically. He understood that his king would choose those with whom he had been working for years, but he didn't feel comfortable with them being Italian. It's not that he disliked Italians, quite the opposite, but he knew that his people wouldn't trust a foreign government that easily. His Charlie had tried, back in 1516, when he brought many German counsellors. This, among other things, had prompted plenty of turbulence on Castile, which had been sternly crashed by the army. Even though Charlie had later begun to slowly change his German ministers by Spaniards, Spain didn't feel like repeating the experience. He voiced his worries to his new king, but he just laughed them away.

"No need to worry, my dear Antonio. They'll see that we work only for them and we'll soon earn their trust."

It worked more or less fine –despite the remorse of the Spanish nobility, which had seen itself rejected in favour of some foreigners– until 1766.

"This is why, because of all the murders, thefts and plenty of other crimes that occur daily on the streets of Madrid, I suggest a law that forbids long capes and wide hats."

That's what Esquilache, one of Carlos' most trusted men, presented before the king; and seeing that he really couldn't argue against his logic, he quickly accepted.

* * *

"I know that one," Alicia says. "Esquilache riots."

"Exactly," confirms Spain. "I tried to explain to them that they couldn't just change stuff like that, that the people wouldn't like it–"

"–that Spaniards are very Spanish and much Spanish," Inés cuts him off, trying to hold back her laughter.

Spain isn't that successful and bursts out laughing. When one of the security guards glares at them, they decide to flee to the toilets so Spain can wash his face, recover his breath and keep on talking.

"To be fair, Esquilache's reform wasn't that bad. What caused the riots were hunger, mainly, and hatred towards the foreigners; and, let's not forget this, many Spanish nobles were behind it– they wanted the Italians back in Italy so they could get back to their positions as counsellors and ministers."

"What did Car– sorry, _Charlie_ , do?"

"Ah, well, he had to oblige and get rid of all his Italian ministers. But after this incident," he suddenly laughs, "he was so scared of the people from Madrid that he went to the Palace of Aranjuez and spent the rest of his reign there. It's funny that he got the nickname of "Madrid's greatest mayor" when he barely was there.

"But he was a great king, and an even better person." He quiets for a while, his gaze lost somewhere on the floor. It takes him a few minutes to finally speak again. "He passed away in 1788, and his son Carlos succeeded him. Just the year before all hell broke loose on Europe."

* * *

 _AN: LOL Romano's a lil piece of shit and I love him._

 _*Kingdom of Spain: I'm not sure if I made it clear enough, so here's a brief explanation: until the Bourbons arrival in 1700/1714, there wasn't a nation called "Kingdom of Spain"; what did exist were different kingdoms that happened to be ruled by the same monarch. The Bourbons ended this, using as an excuse the rebellion of Aragon, so technically we can only talk about "Kingdom of Spain" from 1714 onwards._

 _*Spaniards are very Spanish and much Spanish: this is something said by Mariano Rajoy, president of Spain from 2011 to 2015, current acting president. He's famous for saying dumb things like that one. Some of his greatest hits are: "a cup is a cup and a plate is a plate", "we're feelings and have human beings", "this is not like when rain falls from the sky and we don't know exactly why", "Spain is full of Spaniards", etc._


	6. VI - 1808: why we don't like the French

**CHAPTER 6:**

 **1808: THAT'S WHY WE DON'T LIKE THE FRENCH.**

Spain signals to the girls to follow him and they happily comply. While they walk down the main corridor, he babbles about the French Revolution and the impact it had.

"It really shook up the whole of Europe. Every monarch was terrified of sharing the fate of poor Louis XVI. Every reaction was the same: close the borders, don't let the news reach the citizens. And of course, declare war to France."

"Even you, despite being allies?"

"Yep. Though I lost quite fast– not that I minded, I had learnt to accept defeat; the problem came when I was forced to become his ally again," he sighs. "That's when the real problems started."

They reach by then the room Spain wanted to go to: before them stands a painting by Goya of Carlos IV's family.

"Manuel Godoy was Carlos' right hand and he was hated by… everyone, actually. The only ones who liked him were the king and particularly the queen."

"… particularly?"

"Oh, yeah, they were lovers." He points to the picture, to the kid in red in the middle, to be more precise. "See that kid over there? He was thought to be Godoy's son."

"Whoa, slow down… Not only did the queen have a lover, but everyone knew about it?"

"They didn't _know_ … they just had high suspicions."

"And you didn't do anything?"

Spain looks at them, an eyebrow raised so high it's almost comical.

"What my monarchs do with their private lives is none of my business. Although…" his gaze travels back to the painting, "perhaps this time I should have done something."

* * *

He kept hearing the rumours. It was impossible not to. Just a ten-minute stroll around the palace was enough to hear whispered conversations filled with poison. Godoy, the servant of France, Napoleon's whore.

Spain knew nobody liked Godoy and that there were many who'd do anything to make him fall. He really didn't mind; after all, the Court always worked that way. It was always the nobility carrying around buckets of shit, patiently waiting for the appropriate moment to drop it on someone else's head. And at the moment, every bucket's objective was Godoy.

"Nobody liked that you signed a peace treaty with France."

"I know, Spain, I know," Godoy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "But what was I supposed to do? He beat us and we're not strong enough to fight them again. Being allies with France is the lesser bad right now."

 _It makes a lot of sense, yes,_ Spain thought. _Let's be allies with the country the rest of Europe is at war with_. He didn't say it out-loud. He had learnt that his advice usually was ignored or even underestimated. He turned to leave when Godoy spoke again:

"Napoleon wants to invade England. He wants your fleet ready."

Spain didn't answer. He would never admit it, but the words "invade England" had sent a shiver down his spine. He had tried back in 1588– and England was making sure he'd never forget how epic his failure had been.

And while he worried over war, the Court kept smearing Godoy. It was 1805, he had survived their intrigues for over ten years (Spain could honestly say he was impressed), but for how long would he resist? He had a hundred enemies for every friend he had. Of course, the fact that two of those friends were the monarchs was a big help. It was also what brought them all down.

The shit was only supposed to hit Godoy. He was close to the queen (perhaps a bit too close), so she was splattered. In the end, shit hit the fan and the king found himself covered in it. It was only then that Spain realized that everything was about to collapse.

* * *

"In an absolute monarchy, the king is the most important piece. If he falls, the whole systems falls with him. The attacks meant for Godoy end up being attacks against the king."

Inés whistles. "Godoy wasn't liked at all, huh?"

"Not one bit. And 1805 did not help at all."

* * *

The plan was good; that, he had to admit. Napoleon was both ambitious and a brilliant strategist. If only he had been a bit luckier…

The deck of the ship was pure frenzy. Sailors ran all around, loading the cannons, taking positions, praying. Nobody had expected for the British navy to be back on them so soon.

Spain tried to remain calm while he yelled orders. He was far from France's ship, but he could guess he was just as nervous as he was. After all, England had become an impressive naval power. The perks of being an island, he mused.

"Sir! The Brits are almost here!" a sailor informed.

"Everyone on position! Get ready for battle!"

Then came the gunshots, the explosions, the screams. And Spain, who thought that had learnt the meaning of defeat in 1588, finally knew what a real humiliation was.

He wasn't sure when he had fallen to the water. He remembered a cannonball piercing his ship from side to side. Then something had hit his head and afterwards all he remembered was being brought back to consciousness when his body hit the cold water. _God, not again_ , was all he could think while he drowned, his heavy red coat sinking him deeper and deeper.

"Got him!"

Spain coughed, expelling water and taking in air. Good, someone had pulled him out of the water, he was alive and breathing and fine… Maybe "fine" was too much, considering that all his ships had sunk, he was sitting in an enemy vessel and the most annoying bastard he had ever had the misfortune to meet was standing right in front of him with a smug smirk on his lips.

"Well, well, this is like _déjà vu_ , don't you think?"

England was enjoying it. Spain couldn't really blame him: if it had been the other way around, he too would be laughing at his enemy's disgrace. Every personification knew that being what they were implied being an emotionless asshole. Despite that, Spain couldn't help but glare at the Englishman –he felt his blood boiling at how the bastard looked down at him– and let the most honest words drop from his lips.

" _Vete a la mierda_."

"That's not a nice thing to say," England pouted, faking a hurt look. "I just pulled you out of the water, I deserve a 'thank you', at least. I don't think drowning is pleasurable… and you're familiar with it, aren't you?" he finished with an evil wink.

Spain narrowed his eyes and glared at England with even more hatred. Yes, he had drowned in 1588, and more than once. He was burning with rage and humiliation and he wasn't sure who he wanted to kill more: England for being an asshole or France for pulling him into a war that wasn't his. Alas, he couldn't kill any of them, so he just let out part of his rage in an under-the-breath curse:

" _Me cago en ti, en Nelson y en la madre que lo parió_."

England eyed Spain. He hadn't fully understood what the other had said, although he had grasped that it hadn't been precisely a compliment. Nevertheless, he felt a tiny bit bad for his enemy.

"Come on," he helped him get up. "You're soaked. I'll get you some dry clothes."

They went to England's cabin, where he helped Spain out of his coat. Spain tried to protest ("I can do it myself, thank you very much!"), but deep down he appreciated the help– every single move he made hurt a lot. A cabin-boy brought some dry clothes for Spain and took the wet ones away.

"Be careful with that coat!" Spain yelled.

"Relax, will you?" groaned England. "I know how insanely important that stupid coat is to you. It will be ok."

Once Spain was fully dressed again, he sat heavily on a chair, closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. "Now's when you start to rub your victory on my face, right?"

"As much as I'd like that, it's not you the one to whom I'd like to do that. And I'm afraid the frog escaped."

When he heard that, Spain clenched his fists in rage. It had been France the one who had provoked that battle, he had been forced to follow him. Yet when it began to get difficult, the remaining French ships had turned their backs on them and run away. The Spanish had remained, which had resulted in the total destruction of his armada. He sometimes wondered why he let his pride rule his actions.

"So what now?"

"We're getting you back to your home."

Spain cracked an eye open and looked at England just like that one time the Brit had told him to come and say hi to his pet unicorn.

"You're getting me back home because…"

England smirked. "I want you to say something to Francis."

"Oh, don't worry," Spain frowned, "there are many things I want to say to him."

"Well, here's another one: I'll kick your ass, you damn frog."

"You already have", he snorted.

"No, I've only kicked yours."

The tiny smile that had been forming on Spain's lips died and the almost friendly atmosphere turned cold again. That last comment had really hurt him, it had hurt the remaining of his shattered pride. Suddenly he wanted payback, and he knew exactly which wound he had to dig.

"I'll gladly give your message to Francis, as it's obvious he wouldn't like to see you personally. Is there any other country who's so tired of your mug that won't talk to you anymore? Oh, yes, there is one…" Spain smirked. "Say, do you have any messages for Alfred?"

The effect was immediate: England's face twisted in a mix of hatred and pain; it took him all his self-control to not break Spain's nose right then and there.

"Don't you dare," he whispered menacingly. "Don't you dare bring him up." His voice cracked and it almost made Spain feel sorry. Almost. "You helped him. You and Francis."

Yes, they had. France had been ecstatic about helping the young colony gain his independence. "Think about it! It will be a big 'fuck you' to England!" he used to say. Spain, at first, had been reluctant. He didn't like the idea of helping him, even if it would piss England off. What if his own colonies decided to follow America's steps? In the end he had had to follow France. And even though it had been satisfying seeing England go down on his knees and cry, he hadn't stopped feeling uneasy since then.

* * *

"Did England really not punch you in the face?" asks Alicia.

"I bet he would have liked to," Spain giggles. "But he just threw me into a stinky cell and fed me what he calls food until we reached my coasts."

"And what did Napoleon do after such defeat?"

"Ah, well, he was… he was brilliant. He initiated an economic war. He wanted to fully isolate England, make him collapse. His main problem was Portugal, so we signed a treaty to invade my brother. Fontainebleau, 1807. The plan was: I'd put my army on the border and wait for the French troops, who'd make a beeline from the Pyrenees to where mine were."

"But they didn't, right?"

"Of course not," Spain snorts. "They began to expand through the whole country. And then, right then, is when Napoleon fucked up."

* * *

"S-Sir, you have a visitor," the servant stuttered. "We're trying to hold him back, but–"

He was interrupted by a loud noise, followed by screams. Then the door opened and a furious Spaniard entered the room. France turned to look at him, a playful smirk in his lips.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Francis?!"

"I'm glad to see you too, Toni. Now, what are you ta–?"

He was abruptly shut up when Spain fisted his collar and pulled him towards him.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he didn't shout this time, but that only made him more terrifying. "Why exactly are your soldiers invading _me_?"

"Oh, come on!" France freed himself. "It's for your own good."

" _For my own good_? Since when invading a country is _for his own good_?"

"You'll thank me later."

"Are you even listening to yourself?"

Spain looked at his –friend? Ally? Or enemy?– in the eyes and recognized the same glint of madness that had once shone in his own gaze. France was drunk in power. And he knew that's when they got the most dangerous. He took a few steps back, slowly shaking his head.

"You'll regret this, Francis. You will."

And he turned and left.

Why had he even gone to France in the first place? He should have stayed with his troops… because now he had no idea where they were. He had heard that the almost forty thousand soldiers that were still active had fled to the south; understandable, considering they were on their own against an army that quadrupled them in number.

It was March of 1808 when he reached Madrid, only to find the Court getting ready to leave.

"What's going on?" he asked Carlos as soon as he found him.

"We're going to the colonies, we'll be safer there."

* * *

Inés frowns. "They went to the colonies? I don't remember ever hearing something like that."

"That's because they never got out of the country. Hell, they didn't even reach Cádiz. In Aranjuez they were surprised by a popular mutiny– they wanted to lynch Godoy."

"Oh. Did they get him?"

"Yes, eventually. After he spent eight hours hidden inside a rolled carpet in an attic."

"Really?"

"Really. They didn't kill him, though. The prince and heir to the throne, Fernando, convinced them to spare his life… in exchange, his father would step down on him."

"And he did?"

"Yes. Fernando VII, what a guy. His first command was returning to Madrid. He wanted to make peace with Napoleon, but when he reached the capital, the first French troops arrived at the same time. Murat, who led them, convinced Fernando to send his parents and Godoy to France… and then slowly managed to get him to France too."

"So the guy stole your kings and you did nothing?"

"I wasn't with them, I had left after Aranjuez. I wanted to find my… lost… soldiers. And that's why I missed the moment that began everything," he smiles, and although it's happy, there's a certain darkness in it that the girls don't miss. "Let's go take a look at Goya's paintings."

* * *

The news that reached him were scattered and uncomplete, but in the end he had managed to understand what had happened.

"So the second of May there's a mutiny in Madrid against the French. It doesn't even last twenty-four hours. On the night from the second to the third, the French authorities shoot hundreds of people. Now there are some more mutinies on other cities. Am I right?"

Spain nodded. "Yes, I think that's it."

He had found almost by accident a small regiment led by general Castaños. A nice man with a funny moustache. He had been with them for a long time –it was already July!– and they were only now learning about what had happened in Madrid.

"Damn the French!" Castaños shouted. "They think they can do as they please just because they're strong."

 _Not so much ago, that's what they said about us_ , Spain thought. Instead, he said: "They've so many fronts open. They will soon be overwhelmed."

"I hope you're right, Spain. I really do."

Some days later, while they marched through the almost deserted land of southern Spain, they saw a huge dust cloud. A battle, not so far away from where they were. They joined without even thinking about it.

* * *

They're now standing in front of one of Goya's most famous paintings: the shootings of the second of May.

"What would you have done if you had been there?" Inés asks.

"I don't know," Spain shrugs. "Maybe I wouldn't have been able to do anything. I was much more useful in Bailén."

"Oh, the battle!"

"Yes, the battle," he chuckles. "Or, if you want: the very first time a French army was defeated in the whole of Europe since 1789."

"Ah, I had almost forgotten how good victory tastes," Spain smiled.

Once the battle had ended, he had joined Castaños and the man who seemed to be the leader of the other Spaniards. There were many news to share.

They told the other about the second of May ("Serves them good!" he had yelled. "They'll learn not to bother the cats again!"); the other told them who they were.

"We heard some news from a little town near Madrid. They said that we would not let ourselves be bossed around by the French; really inspiring. So we took some weapons and began to wander around, trying to harm the enemy as much as we could."

"You're not soldiers?" Castaños asked, clearly surprised.

"We're not. Not all of us, at least. We're lucky you arrived at the battle; otherwise, we would have been crushed."

"But you were holding them very well, considering you're not professionals."

"We were more than them, which is always useful. Also, we believe they were really tired: if our suspicions are correct, they would have been walking under the sun for days."

Spain laughed happily at that. Silly Frenchmen, walking through the south in summer and not taking precautions. He winked and the setting sun and threw a kiss at it.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

"I'm still curious, though," Castaños interrupted. "Why did the citizens raise in arms?"

"We don't accept the new king."

"Fernando?" Spain asked, suddenly confused.

"What? No, no, Fernando is the one we want back! Dear God, haven't you heard?" The man looked at them both in awe. "Napoleon crowned his brother as king of Spain."

* * *

" _Guerra de guerrillas_ , or _guerrilla war_. Completely improvised by the population when they find themselves without rulers. A whole country rising against an invader. Pretty impressive, if you ask me."

"What happened in that small town?"

"Ah, Móstoles," Spain chuckles. "Now it's one of the biggest towns of Madrid; back then, it was a small village with barely two hundred inhabitants."

"But what did they do?"

"They, ah, they… They declared war to France."

"… right."

"The funniest part is that, when everything ended, everyone forgot about that declaration. It was found much later… and France and I symbolically signed a peace treaty in 2008."

"2008?!"

"So you're telling me that technically you've been at war with France for two hundred years?"

"Yeah."

"Well, that's really funny."

"It is, isn't it?" Spain smiles softly. "Unfortunately, that doesn't make the rest of the war any less painful."

They walk to the next room, where Goya's _Black Paintings_ are displayed. They're all dark and creepy: there's a witches' Sabbath, a dog drowning in mud, Saturn devouring his kid, two men fighting with garrottes. All of them inspired by the bloodiest war between France and Spain.

* * *

 _AN: hello again! I thought it'd be nice uploading this chapter on the 2nd of May, so I took time from where I didn't have it to write it :P My original idea was covering the whole war in this episode, but I realized it would have been way too long, so I decided to cut it in two._

 _If anyone was confused by the guy who said "they'll learn not to bother the cats again": the people from Madrid are often referred to as "cats". Its origin is a medieval legend._


	7. VII - El Petit Cabrón and Pepe Botella

_AN: no, you're not dreaming, I actually posted a new chapter! :O I know it's been so damn long; my apologies. I don't have much free time, and the little I had I invested in other projects. Now, however, I've promised myself I won't start anything else until I'm finished with this. I hope I can keep that promise. (Also, that doesn't mean that I'll update regularly. I'm a busy woman.)_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 7:**

 **EL PETIT CABRÓN Y PEPE BOTELLA**

Spain knows that somewhere in the museum there's a painting of the battle of Bailén, but he doesn't want to go where it is; mainly because he also knows that in front of it there's another painting that shows Isabel in her deathbed. He doesn't like it. Besides, if there's a painter that outshines all others when it comes to the Spanish Independence War, that's Goya.

"I like that one a lot," Inés says, pointing at one of Goya's black paintings.

"Really?" Spain raises an eyebrow. "Well, then you might want to seek professional help." He speaks jokingly, but the truth is that the painting is rather grim— just the title sometimes makes him shiver. _Saturno devorando a su hijo_ ; _Saturn devouring his son_. Definitely not what you'd show your kids before they go to sleep. "I prefer this one here," he says after a while. " _Duelo a garrotazos_. It really shows how harsh those times were."

Both Francis and he agreed, a long time ago, that those years are not to be mentioned. And there are really good reasons for that.

* * *

The French soldiers marched tiredly through the dusty path. The narrow valley barely allowed their carts to pass, and forced them to walk in a line. That worried the generals: not only they moved slower, but they also were a perfect target. And God, had they learnt to be scared.

They all knew they had to keep their eyes open. They all knew they couldn't let their guard down. But after a whole day of almost non-stop walking, even the most enduring of soldiers would get distracted. The moment everyone no longer walked but rather moved one foot in front of the other by pure inertia, the moment some of them began to trip with their own feet, the moment their glances just stared blankly at the back in front of them— that was the moment when the Spaniards fell on them.

It was a quick skirmish. While the French outnumbered their enemies, the Spanish were well rested and knew the place better. But, more important than anything, their lives were everything they had left. So they fought with a fierce rage, only one thought in mind: slaughter as many Frenchmen as possible. No prisoners.

"… musty cheese, and watered-down wine."

Spain nodded and thanked the man for the report. All the food stored in that cart would feed them for a few weeks; a few weeks in which they could stay away from villages, a safe bet for both them and the villagers themselves.

"The last cart has guns and ammunition," another man informed.

A smirk grew on Spain's lips. They were always running short of weapons, so it was a pleasant surprise. He realized his actions didn't make him much different than the English pirates he had cursed and blamed for centuries, but he didn't have much of a choice. He just swallowed every remorse he could have and went on with it.

"Take everything you can carry, burn the rest," he ordered. "Make sure all of the wounded can walk; if necessary, make them a crutch. Leave the dead."

There would be a celebration that night, a celebration he wouldn't —couldn't— join. None of his men had realized, but it was impossible for him not to— they were his people, after all. He still couldn't understand why some Spaniards were joining forces with the French. He had avoided facing them himself, but he still had felt their deaths. Once again, he had to stand Spaniards killing Spaniards. Oh, how he wished he could visit Francis and slap some sense into him.

* * *

"So you joined a guerrilla?"

"Yep. While we fought, many others tried to act as a government… or something like that."

"The ones in Cádiz?"

"Mainly those," Spain nods. "One of the first things they did was sign an alliance with England. They also wrote a Constitution! The first one I ever had."

" _La Pepa_!" Inés and Alicia exclaim at the same time.

"That one," he laughs.

"And were you all the war with the guerrilla?"

"No. Only for a few months, barely half a year."

"Why? What happened?"

Spain looks at them with a weird glint in his eyes, some sort of dark amusement that the girls don't miss. "That we lost a battle."

* * *

The soldiers that escorted him had gotten lost. Spain didn't know how to take the fact that he knew the place where he was being held prisoner way better than his captors. Just another irony in the big nonsense that life is, he mused. By the time they reached the throne room, his wrists hurt after being tied for so long, and he was getting sick of seeing only Frenchmen walking around the Royal Palace.

Only two people waited for him. One of them dismissed the soldiers as soon as they entered, and then walked towards Spain until they were practically touching. Spain couldn't help but wonder if his "host" would have gotten this close, had he not been cuffed.

"What an honour!" he exclaimed, letting sarcasm tint his voice. "It's _el Petit Cabrón_ himself! I must say, you're taller than I expected."

If Napoleon was offended, he didn't let it show. On the contrary, he smiled. "You'll have to work on your manners, dear Spain. Can I call you Antonio?"

"No."

"Ah, and here I was hoping we could get along…" He started to pace around, with all the confidence one would expect of him. "I expect that at least we can reach an agreement—"

"An agreement," Spain snorted. "Hey, about this: you leave."

Spain learnt two things that day: one, Napoleon didn't like being talked in such disrespectful way; and two, Napoleon could speak —scold— for over an hour without showing any signs of wanting to stop.

"All I'm asking," he said in what seemed to be the end of his speech, "is that you accept my brother José as king—"

" _Y un rabo_ ," Spain muttered.

"—and that you cancel your alliance with England."

He laughed at that. "I didn't even accept that alliance, it has nothing to do with me. What makes you think I have the power to revoke it?" Before Napoleon could answer, he went on. "And I'm not accepting your brother as king. It has been my people who have decided they don't want him; and what they don't want, I don't want either."

José Bonaparte, who had barely moved since Spain entered, squirmed nervously. He clearly wanted to be anywhere but there; and he clearly didn't like being the conversation topic.

Napoleon's brow furrowed. He was starting to lose his patience. "Listen. I've come here with over four hundred thousand soldiers; it won't take me long to crush your futile resistance." Both of them knew that the guerrilla was proving to be quite the opposite of 'futile', but Spain didn't have time to point that out. "You'll end up having to accept my terms, only that now you have the chance to do it the good way. So, what is it going to be?"

That straight threat was what irritated Spain the most. If he had managed to drain Napoleon's patience, there was no doubt the Frenchman had drained his as well. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the Emperor in a way that could have stopped an army. "Do not commit the mistake of thinking you can play with me." He spoke calmly, knowing that it could be much more terrifying than screaming. His burning gaze never left Napoleon's eyes. "Do you think it's smart, fighting the whole continent at once? And when did you think that it'd be a good move, invading the only country that happened to be your ally?" Napoleon opened his mouth in an attempt to retort, but Spain didn't let him say anything. "How long do you think this is going to last? How long do you think it'll take for your army to collapse? Do you really think you can subdue all of Europe? I wish I can be there the moment you realize you've committed a huge mistake; I wish I can be there the moment everything comes crashing down on you; I wish I can be there to see your face when you suffer the biggest of defeats. It might not be today, nor tomorrow; but the day will come, and you don't know how much I wish I can be there to witness your downfall."

By the time Spain finished his rant, Napoleon was red with rage, his fists clenched so tight that his knuckles were white. He didn't seem to be scared; José, on the other hand, was shocked by Spain's words; so much that he had sat on the throne because his legs felt like jelly.

"How dare you speak to me like that?" Napoleon hissed.

"Don't forget who I am," Spain warned. "You might be France's Emperor, but I still am the fucking Empire where the Sun never sets, and you'll do yourself a favour if you remember that," he spat. "And you," he turned and shot José a murderous gaze, "get off that throne."

An hour later, Spain was thrown into a stinky cell. His outburst had earned him a beating, but it had been worth it. He doubted any other nation would have the chance —or the guts— to speak like that to Napoleon. He groaned and cursed when he moved to sit in a more comfortable position— his whole body ached.

"I hope my men weren't too harsh with you."

He looked up, surprised, and saw José leaning on the bars, looking at him with a soft smile.

"They could have been nicer," he answered after a while, "but it was nothing I couldn't take. I've been through worse."

"I don't doubt it." He fell silent for a bit. His eyes wandered all around the small cell, and he bit his lower lip. He seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. "Listen, I came to tell you that I— that I'll try to be a good king. I know I'm not particularly wanted, but maybe if you give me a chance…"

"It's not me the one who has to give you a chance."

"But if you do, then others will surely join you! Everyone complains about me without having given me time to prove myself," he complained. "You must have heard my nickname."

Spain nodded slowly. _Pepe Botella_. It was difficult not knowing it: all around the country, people used it to discredit him or mock his supposed alcoholism.

"Well, _I don't even drink_ ," José said through gritted teeth.

Spain just shrugged. "What do you want me to do? Visit every single Spaniard to let them know that you aren't an alcoholic and that you want to be a good king? I don't think they'd suddenly want you here."

"I didn't even want to be here in the first place!" he yelled, breaking down. "I was perfectly happy in Naples! When my brother offered me your throne, I instantly refused. It seems, though, that the mighty Napoleon Bonaparte doesn't 'offer'— he _orders_. I came here against my will to find a population that despises me for no reason other than my surname, and that points out flaws I don't have!"

"Well, I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do for you," Spain muttered. Silence fell between them, but it wasn't awkward at all, to Spain's surprise. After a while, though, he felt like breaking it. "Why didn't you want to come?"

José smiled. "Romano talked about you a lot."

"Did he?" A bright grin lit up Spain's face. "What did he say?"

"That you're a fucking bastard, mostly."

He couldn't help but laugh at that. Some things would never change.

* * *

"Wait, so you were imprisoned for most of the war?"

"Nah, I escaped," he waves his hand, resting importance. "Really, I was locked in my own palace— I knew every single secret passage."

"What did you do then?"

"I went to Cádiz. What was going on there was far too important for me to ignore it."

* * *

"Spain! What a pleasant surprise!"

"Shut the fuck up."

England smirked. He would have kept speaking if Portugal hadn't elbowed him and shot him a warning glance.

Spain was getting close to Cádiz when he had met a regiment —an actual army, not a guerrilla— formed by Spaniards, Englishmen, and Portuguese alike. He had been extremely surprised to meet both England and Portugal among them. While he was happy to see his brother, even more after having had to fight him, he couldn't say the same about England: Trafalgar was still too recent.

The three of them spoke for a while— well, Spain talked with Portugal and deliberately ignored everything England said. They were allies now, but that didn't mean he had to be nice to him.

"Who exactly do you obey now?" Portugal asked that night over dinner.

"No one," Spain shrugged. "There's no one to follow; the people are acting on their own. Nobody knows what's really going on."

"Well, that's… unfortunate," England commented in a dark, low voice.

None of them said it, but all of them where thinking it: the confusion that was lived in the peninsula would be multiplied in the colonies. Who knew what could happen if they suddenly decided that they could live without their lifelong caretaker looking after them.

Spain didn't want to think about it. He was quick to change the conversation topic.

The next morning, they parted ways. Portugal tried to convince him to join them, but Spain insisted on going to Cádiz. He wasn't entire sure of what exactly was going on, but he had heard rumours. Some sort of provisional government; a Constitution being written. He couldn't stay out of it.

"Alright, your decision," Portugal finally gave up, hugging him one last time. "Good luck."

"You too. If you happen to meet France, punch him in the face for me, will you?"

"You can bet I will," England said before Portugal could speak.

For the first time in many years, Spain and England shared a smile.

* * *

"Did you make it to Cádiz?"

Spain hums an affirmative answer.

"They wrote the first Constitution I've ever had— I couldn't miss something like that! Although," he chuckles, "I wouldn't have been too excited if I had known how many of those were to come."

The nineteenth century was a mess in many aspects; in hindsight, however, Spain has to admit that most of it was pretty fun too.

* * *

 _AN: I had Napoleon and Spain's meeting in mind since before I started to write this fanfic. I'm happy I finally got to write it. Some notes:  
"El Petit Cabrón" is how Napoleon was nicknamed by the Spaniards. "Petit", French for "small"; and "Cabrón", Spanish insult, more or less meaning "bastard". We're lovely people :)_  
 _And "Pepe Botella", his brother: "Pepe" is a common nickname for "José" (for some reason I'll never understand), and "Botella" means "Bottle".  
Hmm I think that's all. I apologize once again for having taken so long to update, and I promise I'll try to be faster from now on :)_


	8. VIII - The Deceitful and the Sunset

_AN: lame title is lame =_= Anyway, here's a new chapter! A few of Spain's colonies appear in it; a few months ago, I gave names to all of them. I'm going to write all of them here, and highlight those who actually appear. You can skip them if you like, you won't be missing anything.  
_

 _ **Argentina — Joaquín  
Bolivia — Simón  
Chile — Miguel  
Colombia ****— Elvira**  
Costa Rica — Teresa  
Cuba — Carlos  
 **Ecuador** **— Pablo**  
El Salvador — Raúl  
Guatemala — Julia  
Haiti — Lucía  
Honduras — Daniel  
 **Mexico** **— Jorge**  
Nicaragua — Claudia  
Panama — Irene  
 **Paraguay** **— Mario**  
 **Peru** **— Nicolás**  
Dominican Republic — Sofía  
Uruguay — María  
 **Venezuela — Carmen  
** The Philippines — Mariana  
Guam — Víctor_

 _(In my mind, Uruguay and Paraguay are twins. You can tell Spain_ _—*cough*I*cough*_ _— wasn't too inspired when giving them their names :P)  
Anyway, without further ado, let's proceed to the chapter!_

* * *

 **CHAPTER 8:**

 **THE DECEITFUL AND THE SUNSET**

"1812, 1827, 1845, 1869, and 1876. And well, there's also 1834, but that one wasn't exactly a Constitution."

"Five different constitutions in one century? You're a fucking mess, did you know that?"

Spain pouts before sighing and dropping his head in defeat. "I'm told a lot, yes," he admits. "By Germany and England, mostly. Then again, those two aren't precisely famous for trying to flatter people." He blinks for a few seconds, lost in thought, before snapping back to reality and offering the girls a bright smile. "What were we talking about? Ah, yes! 1812, my very first Constitution." He motions for them to follow him and guides them to a neighbouring room, where he shows them a portrait. "That's Carlos IV's son, who became Fernando VII when the Napoleonic Wars ended."

"Hey!" Alicia protests. "You're not going to tell us how that ends?"

"Don't you know already? Russia, Waterloo— you surely know all that."

"Oh, alright. What about Fernando, then?"

"He went down in history as 'the deceitful king'," he snorts. "It's not too difficult to know why."

* * *

"… let us all walk the constitutional path, where I shall be the first in line…"

Spain listened carefully the speech Fernando was giving. The king had returned from his 'vacations' in France to find a Constitution written and approved, and he had quickly claimed to accept it. However, he still hadn't gone to Madrid to officially sign it, and Spain doubted he would. The king said he wanted to travel all around the peninsula, visit his loyal people and personally thank them for having expelled the French; and it didn't matter for how long and how much Spain tried to talk him out of it, he wouldn't change his mind. _I can't waste time with you here_ , he thought once again, annoyed. _I have a bunch of colonies on the other side of the Atlantic who haven't heard from me in a very long time— I have to go see them!_

Fernando finished his speech and received a loud ovation. Spain clapped half-heartedly and rushed to his king's side.

"Do you still intend to go on that tour of yours?"

"Fully," replied Fernando, barely bothering to look at him.

"In that case, I request your permission to go to the colonies while you're at it."

"Denied."

Thrown aback, Spain tried to protest, but the king was already walking away. He considered running after him to insist, but he discarded the thought. Somehow, he knew he wouldn't get his permission. And he'd probably have to tag along with him. Just what he needed. Tired, he rubbed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. He had the feeling it would be a very long and convulsed reign.

His superstition turned out to be true when, in the middle of Fernando's tour, they arrived in Valencia and met a group of soldiers and some people he recognized as some of the most conservative members of the Court.

They had a long talk with the king. When they finished, Fernando went straight to Madrid and abolished the Constitution.

* * *

"So he said one thing and then he did the opposite," Inés mutters. "That sounds familiar."

"Not much has changed since then, huh?" Spain chuckles, a slight blush covering his cheeks. "To be fair, that's what politicians do everywhere, not just here." He ruffles his hair and sends a musing look to Fernando's portrait. "The thing with him is just that he… did it too often."

"How long did it take you to finally convince him to let you go to America?" Alicia asks, barely holding back a laugh.

"He allowed me to go practically after he abolished the Constitution," he answers.

None of the girls miss how his expression grows shadier.

* * *

Spain entered the room with purpose, his red coat graciously flowing behind him. He instantly felt tens of gazes fixed on him, which prompted him to straighten a little. The war against France had left him weaker than he wanted to admit, but he wasn't going to let it show. And much less to _them_.

"Okay, guys, I know the last few years have been a bit, uh… chaotic," he said, loud and clear, wanting all of them to hear him. "Now that the war is over, I wanted to come and let you know that everything will remain as it was before. Okay?" He looked around the room, at all the faces that refused to meet his gaze. His brow furrowed. There was something wrong, and he couldn't pinpoint what it was. "What's the matter?" he asked, confused. It wasn't like them to show discomfort to him, not so openly. His eyes scanned the whole room, trying to find a clue, something, anything, that could let him know what was going on. Mexico was chewing the inside of his cheek; Venezuela and Colombia shared quick looks whenever they thought he didn't see them; Peru squirmed nervously on his chair. And then it hit him. His eyes widened and his jaw fell just a little as he asked, in an almost trembling whisper: "Guys…

"Where's Argentina?"

* * *

"This is much better," Spain sighs, leaning back against a tree. "It was too crowded in there."

The girls silently agree. Spain didn't look too happy while looking at Fernando's portrait, and they had already seen practically the entire museum, so the three of them have agreed to leave and go to the Retiro Park. They have bought some ice-creams on the way there and are now relaxing, laying on the grass at the shade of the trees.

"Argentina was the first to leave," Spain says after a while. "First I was busy fighting the French, and then I was too weak to stop him. And he knew it."

* * *

He spotted a figure that stood tall, a dark silhouette against the setting sun, and he rushed to its side. He had been looking for him for a while, although it hadn't been too complicated to track him.

Somehow, that was what worried him the most.

"Joaquín!" he called when he reached him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Argentina turned to look at him. His face was stern and determined, and Spain almost flinched when he realized they were almost the same height now. When had they all grown up that much?

"I'm leaving," his (former—?!) colony answered calmly. "For good. And I won't be the only one."

"I won't allow it," Spain replied, not sounding as menacing and towering as he would have liked.

"No? Then go ahead," Argentina smirked, "stop me." His grin was a clear indication that he knew what Spain feared: he couldn't be stopped. Not at this point. "I'm only the first one," he went on, surely enjoying the fear he could read on those green eyes. "It won't take long for my brothers and sisters to be free from your leash."

Spain narrowed his eyes and glared at him. "You sound too sure," he hissed.

"Of course," he replied, his smirk growing bigger. There was a dark glint in his eyes when he added: "The sun is setting."

As if on cue, the sun completely hid behind the horizon, letting darkness take over the sky. Not having anything left to say, Argentina turned and left, knowing he'd never forget Spain's shocked and terrified face.

He was shivering, and he didn't know exactly why. His gaze barely followed Argentina as he left, since his last words played on repeat in his head and occupied all his thoughts. He looked to the place where the sun had disappeared. The clouds were tinted with bright pink and orange, creating a wonderful sight. However, it only brought cold to Spain's heart as he started to come to terms with the reality:

It was said that the Sun never set in his Empire… but it was about to.

* * *

"Fernando… wasn't a good king. He didn't know how to deal with the many problems he had to face; and he was so scared of being betrayed that he chose his most trusted people to be his advisors."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You can trust someone, but that doesn't make that person able to perform a certain job," Spain explains. He makes a pause to lick his ice-cream, an amused look on his face. "A cook shouldn't be a king's advisor, don't you think?"

"His cook? Really?"

"Oh, yes. And a Russian ambassador, after he spent an awful amount of time in Madrid."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

There are a few second of silence until the three of them burst out laughing. Spain remembers doing nothing but curse Fernando's uselessness back in the day; now, however, two centuries after, all he can do is laugh at the absurdity of the situation.

He still can't help but wish that it had been another, more capable monarch the one who had to deal with that.

* * *

Spain paced nervously around the office, hearing but barely listening to what Fernando was saying. He had known that day would come, and after his conversation with Argentina, he had thought that he was ready for it.

He had never been more wrong.

"We've already lost a lot of time; the rebellion grows stronger with every passing day," the king was saying. "It was bad enough losing Argentina, our main source of silver— we _can't_ afford to lose all others." He raised his head from his desk and threw a bored look at Spain. "Take the troops and crush the resistance."

At that, the kingdom stopped suddenly and looked at his king with a devastated expression.

"Do not send me there," he requested, almost begged. "They— they're like my little siblings— they're practically my kids! I don't want to lose them either but—"

"The rebellion must be stopped," Fernando interrupted, stern.

"It must," Spain agreed. "Send all the troops we can afford; spend all the money we have— but don't send me." His voice cracked and he needed a moment to breathe deeply and recompose himself. "I can't fight them."

"You can and you will. That's an order."

A wave of rage shook Spain's body, but he managed to control himself and not explode. Still, his eyes darkened and his jaw went rigid; and his voice sounded cold and impersonal when he said:

"I shall do as my king commands."

An order was an order.

He nodded in a poor excuse for a bow and left, making sure to bang the door as hard as he could.

* * *

"England helped them. I really can't blame him— it was his fair revenge, after I had helped his colonies to gain independence. I did it anyway. Blame him, I mean. It was much easier to hate him than any of the others."

They have finished their ice-creams a while ago, and now they're lying on the grass. Spain is on the middle, his head resting on his arms, his whole body relaxing. It's actually impressive, how he manages to remain so calm while remembering one of the darkest episodes of his history.

"It must have been a very difficult time."

"It was, yes," he sighs. "I always knew it would happen sooner or later; it's just I was never fully prepared to face it." A soft breeze blows and Spain closes his eyes, enjoying the feeling. "It actually started long before Fernando, you know. It was Carlos III who, unknowingly, started it. Before him, every ship that wanted to trade with the colonies had to pass through Cádiz first; even if the colonies wanted to trade between them. Charlie allowed them to skip it. It was a good move, since it pumped trade," a sad smile grows on his lips. "But it also helped them realize that maybe they didn't need _papá España_ to look after them anymore."

* * *

The battle had been going on for a few hours already, and Spain was tired. He had been tired for too long already. Defeat after defeat, surprise after surprise, it had all led him there, to Ayacucho, where he was certain he'd have to face them. He had been thankful after every battle for not having met any of his colonies, for not having had to directly fight them; the time had come, however, and he feared the moment his halberd was to meet their own weapons.

He managed to move to a much less chaotic area and scanned his surroundings. It was clear that he was losing, but at the moment he didn't mind. All he could care about was seeing them. He feared it yet longed for it at the same time, because it had been too long since they had last met, and who knew for how long they wouldn't meet again.

They were all there, he knew it.

Joaquín, Pablo, Jorge, Nicolás, Mario, Carmen, Simón, Elvira, Miguel.

His heart clenched when all those names he had given them came to his mind.

He knew he should think of them as Argentina, Ecuador, Mexico, Peru, Paraguay, Venezuela, Bolivia, Colombia, Chile.

He knew he should think of them as enemies.

Fate decided to have them all show themselves at that very same moment, and Spain felt his heart break down to pieces when they surrounded him, weapons drawn and determined expressions. Spain tried with all his might to keep any emotion from showing on his face while he eyed them carefully, waiting for them to make the first move. He needed for them to do it— without a provocation, he would never engage them in combat. He clenched his halberd (he felt as if it would slip from his hands at any given moment), he readjusted his red coat (it suddenly felt so heavy on his shoulders), he sent one quick prayer (for whom, he didn't know).

And then the final battle started.

Spain was older, still stronger, and much more experienced. But they were more, and he was too tired— of fighting war after war, of facing people he cared about. Soon, he was overwhelmed by the amount of blows thrown at him, although he managed to stop and dodge most of them. However, he knew —and the others did, too— that it was just a matter of time.

It happened sooner than expected. Spain didn't know for sure which had been his mistake, but suddenly there was an opening, and a sharp bayonet flying straight to his chest. He yelped, surprised, and moved to dodge it; and he probably would have, were it not for the hand that grabbed his coat in the last moment. He was suddenly tugged back, and it was pure instinct what twisted his body to dodge the blade.

The hand, however, didn't let go of the coat, and what was meant to stab Spain ended up piercing it instead.

Spain froze, suddenly unable to hear anything save for the loud _rriiipp_ the fabric made when the weapon descended and tore it apart. His mind went blank, and it was his body that took control: he squirmed, pushing away those who were too close, and stumbled until he was at a safe distance; the now uncomfortable coat was quickly taken off and dropped.

For some agonizingly long minutes, nobody moved. All the eyes were fixed on the coat, which used to make Europe shiver, that now laid on the ground, dirty, bloodstained and almost ripped in half. Spain breathed shakily, unable to look away but wanting too at the same time. He remembered clearly the day Isabel and Fernando had given him that coat, his very first birthday gift, and he felt a cold stab of sadness when he realized that, after three centuries, he wouldn't wear it again.

That coat symbolized the Empire were the Sun never set, and now twilight had arrived.

The moment of stupor passed and he was attacked again. He defended himself more by instinct and routine than by an actual self-protection desire. That's why it didn't take long for the other to skilfully disarm him, leaving him completely defenceless.

Then he was hit roughly on the head and everything faded to black.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"What's it like now? I mean, you get along, don't you?"

"Yes, we do, although we have our differences," Spain answers, smiling when he thinks there are some men he has always cursed in his mind —Bolivar, San Martín, O'Higgins, Sucre, Iturbide— and how funny it is that those same people are regarded as heroes across the pond. "Of course, they all celebrate so proudly their independence day," he goes on. "When the time comes, I just… pretend I'm busy."

That's Spanish for _I go get drunk with England_. Not his best pal, but the one who understands.

* * *

He woke up to the sound of footsteps around him. The battle had ended, and he didn't need to ask to know the result.

He overheard some very well-known voices talking, arguing what to do with him. He groaned and tried to move, tried to stand up, but two pairs of hands suddenly grabbed him and pulled him up, holding him in place firmly and forcing him to remain down on his knees. Spain whined— his whole body hurt, he had a headache, and he felt weaker than he had in centuries.

"Hold him tight," someone said (was that Mexico—?) seconds before Spain was punched harshly across the face.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath, coughing and spitting blood. He feared another one would come, but that didn't seem to be the case. Instead, a rifle's butt was placed under his chin, forcing him to look up, and he was met with a pair or dark eyes. "Jorge…" he whispered.

"Don't try that," Mexico warned. "It might make me angrier."

Spain blinked a few times, his brain trying to understand the position he was now in. "What are you going to do?" he asked after a while, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. After all, they were pretty angry with him, and had just won a decisive battle— God knew what they'd be able to do.

"I'm not sure," he muttered, his attention suddenly deviated to his siblings, who were around them and watched the scene. "What do you say, guys?"

There were a few moments of silence, of narrowing eyes, of darkened expressions, and Spain suddenly started to fear for his wellbeing. He squirmed a little, but those who held him in place —he realized now they were Peru and Chile— tightened their grasp and he decided to remain still, behave, and pray.

"Maybe this'll do," Colombia said then, and Spain thought she meant that he had had enough —which he did— until she walked to them and dropped two things in front of him: his coat and his halberd.

"Ah, yes," Mexico smiled, kicking the torn coat. "I think you won't be needing these anymore." Without another word, he took the halberd and drew a sword; Argentina walked to his side and held the axe's shaft to make it easier. More than one blow were needed to break it in half, but soon two pieces joined the coat on the floor. "That's better."

Spain, who had refused to turn his gaze away, looked at the destroyed objects displayed before him, feeling as if a cold, iron fist was clenching his heart. He blinked a few times and, before he knew it, there were tears running down his cheeks.

Argentina snorted.

"I saw you cry once," he said, "when Romano left. And now you're crying over a coat and a halberd?"

Spain looked up at him, and his voice surprisingly didn't break when he replied: "I'm not crying for those."

A dense silence surrounded them. Mexico and Argentina shared a look and silently agreed; they motioned for Peru and Chile to let go of Spain, and then started to go away. The others soon followed them, leaving their former caretaker alone.

Spain didn't know for how long he had been like that, sat on the ground, his gaze never leaving his coat and halberd —or what was left of them—, when he heard footsteps coming and someone sat by his side. He didn't need to look to know who it was.

"It sucks, huh?" England said, softly.

"It sucks," he confirmed, not bothering to look at him, his voice coarse and shaky. "How do you get over it?"

"You don't. You just learn to deal with it," the blonde answered, placing a hand on the other's shoulder as a sign of support.

And then Spain started to sob again. England sighed and moved closer, giving him a one-armed hug as he let him cry on his shoulder. He still remembered what Spain had said to him after Trafalgar, and a part of him was screaming for payback; however, he found himself unable to hurt further the man who was now sobbing uncontrollably.

He understood what he was going through better than he would've liked.

* * *

"I didn't see them for a very long time after that," Spain mutters, "but we get along now, and that's all that matters. The good part," he smiles, recovering his cheerful attitude, "is that, at least, I had one less problem to take care of."

"Because now is when everything starts to go downhill, right?"

"… more or less," he chuckles.

Truth is, Fernando gave him enough headaches; and so did, a little afterwards, Carlos and Isabel. Those were maddening times, but he would be lying if he said that he doesn't find them hilarious.

* * *

 _AN: You get symbolism! You get symbolism! You get symbolism! Everyone gets symbolism! *Oprah intensifies*  
_ _I didn't write the conclussion of the Napoleonic Wars because well, Spain did play its part, but mostly inside the borders. When Napoleon started the Russian campaign, he took a lot of soldiers from Spain, leaving way too few here to fight the guerrilla. After being defeated, Napoleon returned the Spanish crown to Fernando, on the condition that they wouldn't be enemies anymore; Fernando accepted immediately because he only cared about being king, and that's the reason why Spain, despite having played a major role in the defeat of Napoleon (fun fact: Napoleon would always say that his biggest mistakes were: a) invading Spain; and b) going to Russia without being done here), didn't participate in the Vienna congress and didn't get anything as a winner of the war. It should come as no surprise that Fernando VII is often considered the worst king Spain has ever had. Anyway, I was saying all this to justify why I didn't write Russia or Waterloo and went straight to Fernando and the independence of the colonies. (Side note: Spain didn't lose all its colonies— it still had Cuba, the Philippines, and some other small islands scatttered around the globe, like Guam.)  
Awe, but look at that, I can write Spain and England getting along! I love them as enemies, but I also believe that they understand one another more than anyone else, as shown in this chapter. (Also, why lie_ _— I ship them, too.)  
It will take me a while to write chapter 9_ _— I start my exams now and I've already procrastinated enough. Apologies. Anyway, reviews are appreciated! :D  
_


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